


Revolution

by CelestialVoid



Series: Prey [5]
Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Mockingjay, Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Alternate Universe- No Supernatural, Angst, BAMF Stiles, Blood and Gore, Blood and Injury, Blood and Torture, Book 3: Mockingjay, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, District 12 Derek, District 12 Stiles, Gen, Hijacking, Hunger Games-Typical Death/Violence, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Character Death, Mutts, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-03
Updated: 2017-07-28
Packaged: 2018-09-28 00:36:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 37
Words: 63,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10059533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CelestialVoid/pseuds/CelestialVoid
Summary: “Derek,” Danny continued. “A lot of people are in the dark about what happened. Could you set the stage for us and walk us through what really happened in those precious few moments?”“Well, first off, you have to understand that when you’re in the Games you only get one wish and it’s very costly,” Derek said calmly, his husky voice rolling through Stiles.“It can cost your life?” Danny asked.“It can cost more than your life,” Derek corrected.“What do you mean?” Danny inquired, his brow furrowed with confusion. “What’s more than your life?”“Well to murder innocent people it can cost everything that you are,” Derek explained. “So you hold onto that one wish and, that night, my one wish was to save Stiles. I should have just run off with him earlier, kept him away from everything and kept him safe.”“But you didn’t. Why?”





	1. Chapter 1

Stiles exhaled heavily as he rolled onto his side. He blinked his heavy eyes open, smiling as he met Derek’s loving gaze.

The older returned the smile, his gorgeous aventurine eyes sparkling in the warm glow of the morning light.

“Hi,” Stiles whispered.

“Hey,” Derek replied, his smile softening and lighting up his face. He reached forward and gently brushed the back of his fingers against Stiles’ mole-speckled cheek.

After a moment, Derek’s smile fell and he solemnly asked, “You know this isn’t real, right?”

Stiles let out a sad sigh, his shoulders sagging as he weakened against the pillows and nodded.

“I don’t want to wake up,” Stiles rasped.

“You have to,” Derek encouraged. “The others need you.”

“But I need you.”

Derek smiled and leant forward. He brought their lips together in a tender kiss.

Stiles sighed, melting into the familiar warmth. He cupped Derek’s cheek, holding onto every last second of that kiss.

Derek slowly pulled away, pressing their foreheads together. The lingering warmth of the kiss played across their lips as he whispered, “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

From somewhere in the distance, Stiles could hear someone calling his name.

“I don’t want to wake up,” Stiles whimpered, tears welling in his eyes. He blinked them back, desperately trying to fight the blurred vision and hold onto that moment he spent with Derek, to look at his face as if he would never see him again.

“Stiles, it’s okay.”

“No,” Stiles panicked. He held him closer, trying to remember everything about that moment. He tried to memorise every detail of Derek: his gorgeous face, his strong jaw that was covered with a scruff of whiskers, the glittering depths of his aventurine eyes that shifted colour in the light, his surprisingly soft hands, his warm, tender touch, everything. “I don’t want to wake up.”

Derek gently caressed his cheek, bringing their lips together in a chaste kiss that lingered on Stiles’ lips.

“Everything’s going to be okay,” Derek promised. “I love you.”

 

Stiles drew in a deep breath and opened his eyes.

He looked around, his vision clearing just enough for him to find himself looking at the somewhat familiar surroundings of the carrier.

“Hey, sweetie,” a soft voice whispered.

He rolled his head to the side and looked up at the woman that looked back at him with loving brown eyes. Stiles blinked heavily, trying to clear the haze that blurred her face.

“Melissa?” he rasped.

“How do you feel?”

“Scott sedated me,” Stiles growled.

“I’m sure he did it for a good reason,” Melissa replied, helping Stiles slowly rise into a sitting position.

“I attacked Peter,” the boy explained, taking a moment to stop his head from spinning.

“Did you at least get a hit in?” Melissa asked.

Stiles shook his head.

She seemed disappointed by his answer, muttering, “I would have let you hit him at least once.”

“That’s why I like you better,” Stiles said with a smirk.

Melissa smiled back at him. “Do you think you can stand?”

Stiles nodded, taking the hand she offered him and rising his feet. It took him a moment to steady himself; his head was aching from the glaring lights and the world was spinning around him.

He looked around himself, finally taking in the surroundings: they had landed; the engines were quiet and the ground was steady. They were in some kind of hangar bay, enclosed by thick metal walls that were adorned by television screens and boxes of supplies. Pushed back against the walls were stacked crates, some covered in camouflaged netting and others left exposed so that the printed text on the side of them could be read: MEDICAL SUPPLIES, RATIONS, MUNITIONS, HANDLE WITH CARE, and several others.

People bustled about the hangar, rushing to carry away a seriously injured young man, while medical staff hesitantly approaching the Mute to check his wounds.

Stiles slowly stepped out of the air craft and turned to look at Melissa.

“We’re really in Thirteen, aren’t we?” Stiles said, amazed.

Melissa didn’t get a chance to reply; Stiles’ attention was drawn towards a figure that approached them. The man had a familiar face: a strong jaw, dark eyes and short but thick brown hair, dashing good looks that his son had inherited.

“Stiles,” the man greeted with an obnoxious grin. “It’s nice to see you again.”

Stiles froze.

His blood boiled in his veins, his jaw tightening as he took a few steps forward.

Rafael’s grin widened as he said, “Welcome to District Thirteen.”

Stiles’ rage boiled over. He clenched his fist and slammed it into Rafe’s jaw, knocking him to the ground.

“Stiles!” Melissa squealed, but the boy didn’t react.

He pounced on Rafe and pinned the man to the ground, punching him over and over again. He heaved in rugged breaths through gritted teeth as his rigid knuckles hit the man’s jaw hard enough that Rafe spat blood across the hangar floor. He could feel his hands burn with pain – bruises were sure to appear later – but he didn’t care.

He let out a broken cry as strong arms pulled him back. He kicked and flailed about like a child throwing a tantrum, screaming at the top of his lungs.

Among the sound of his wailing, his incoherent obscenities and his violent sobs, he heard Melissa instruct Scott to carry Stiles downstairs.

Scott nodded and dragged Stiles into the elevator. He waited until the doors were closed before setting Stiles down on his feet.

Stiles sank to his knees and let out a heart-breaking scream. Hot tears streaked his cheeks as he thumped his fist against the floor of the elevator.

After a minute the boy began to settle, tears caressing his pale skin and shattering like glass as they fell to the elevator floor.

“I’m sorry,” Scott said, his voice full of so much tension and pain that his words were strained to a weak whisper.

Stiles didn’t say anything. He drew in deep breaths and tried to compose himself as he dragged his hands down his face to clear away the tears.

“I tried to get them to go back for Derek, but he was the first one the Capitol pulled out of the arena,” Scott told him. “I’m sorry… I let you down.”

“No, you didn’t,” Stiles rasped, slowly rising to his feet. He looked at his friend, noticing how the dark depths of Scott’s eyes swirled with pain. Stiles stepped forward and rested a reassuring hand on his friend’s shoulder. “You have never let me down. Not once.”

Scott tried to smile, but it failed him. He stepped forward and pulled Stiles into his arms.

Stiles buried is face in the curve of his friend’s neck. His tears soaked into the fabric of Scott’s grey jumpsuit.

“And sorry I sedated you,” Scott muttered.

Stiles couldn’t help but chuckle.

“You couldn’t even let me hit Peter once?” Stiles asked.

Scott smothered his laugh. “No, sorry.”

“How are you doing?” Stiles asked.

“What do you mean?” Scott inquired, frowning slightly with confusion.

“I mean, your dad just came back from the dead,” Stiles pointed out.

Scott smiled weakly. “He stop being my dad a long time ago.”

Stiles watched as his best friend fell silent for a moment, his face twisted in thought. After a second, he looked back up at Stiles, his face full of pain as he said, “He left, Stiles. The mines collapsed and he climbed down the tunnels until he could dig his way out and then he left. He could have come back to us, but he didn’t; He made us think he was dead all this time.”

“I’m sorry,” Stiles whispered.

“It doesn’t matter,” Scott replied, his composure returning as he looked at Stiles. “My mum, you, your dad, Chris and Isaac; you are my family. And we’re better off without him.”

The elevator hummed as it slowed to a halt.

The door rattled loudly as they stepped out onto the level.

A young woman met them at the elevator, her face full of worry and her shoulders rising as falling as she tried to catch her breath. She looked at Scott and said, “It’s Isaac. He’s-”

“Again?” Scott said in disbelief.

She nodded.

Scott sighed and led the way towards the entrance hatch to a ventilation shaft.

“What’s going on?” Stiles asked.

“Isaac hasn’t had the best time adjusting to the change,” Scott explained. “He keeps hiding in the vents.”

Scott stopped before the vent entrance and called to the younger boy, “Isaac?”

“Go away!” Isaac cried.

“Isaac, come out of there, buddy,” Scott encouraged.

“No!” the boy shrieked. “Go away.”

“Isaac, you know it’s dangerous in there. Come on.”

“No!”

“For crying out loud,” Stiles muttered. He stepped forward and hoisted himself into the vent. He crawled down through the confined space until he found the young boy huddled in the darkness.

“Hey, buddy,” Stiles whispered.

“Stiles?” Isaac muttered.

“What are you doing in here?” Stiles asked.

“It’s quiet,” Isaac whispered. “I like it when it’s quiet.”

“So do I,” Stiles agreed. “But it’s dangerous in here and the last thing I want is for you to get hurt. So why don’t we go back to our room and sit there?”

“Okay,” Isaac agreed.

Stiles led the way out of the vent, the thick aluminium plating letting out an echoing boom as it buckled beneath their weight. Stiles climbed out onto the solid concrete platform of that level and reached back for Isaac, helping the boy climb out of the vent and holding him close as Scott led them back to their room.

Stiles knew he should report to the medical bay like Mute had and have his wounds checked; he shouldn’t be walking around unless he had been cleared from the medical bay yet, his priority was Isaac.

He guided the boy into the dull quarters.

The thick metal plating of the walls were a stark white, the confined space was smaller than their old bedroom in District Twelve. In the room sat two bunk beds with thick metal frames, military grade and regulated. Thin mattresses, rough sheets and blankets that looked starchy and brown, like hessian bags, were fitted into the frames. Beside the door was a wardrobe fitted into the small alcove, holding only a few dull grey jumpsuits and matching black boots. Scott had managed to grab his jacket and Isaac’s and kept them hidden in the back of the wardrobe.

Stiles glanced over his shoulder at Scott, his face twisted into an expression of distaste as if to say ‘This is it?’.

Scott sighed and nodded solemnly.

Isaac sat down on the lower bunk and looked up at Stiles.

“This is my bunk,” he explained, his voice full of childish innocence as he patted his mattress and waited for Stiles to sit next to him before continuing, “Scott sleeps on the bed above mine unless I have a nightmare, then he sleeps with me. And there’s a bunk free for you to move in with us.”

“Mum has to clear him from the hospital first,” Scott said softly, sitting down across from them.

“Speaking of which, who else made it out?” Stiles asked. “I was in the carrier with the Mute but I didn’t see anyone else.”

“We got Corey out,” Scott told him. “He was paralysed and was rushed straight to the infirmary in a critical condition.”

“Marin?” Stiles asked, his voice full of hope and fear.

Scott looked down at his feet and shook his head. “She didn’t make it.”

There was a thundering crash outside, followed by pained cries and the stampede of heavy leather boots.

“Isaac, stay here,” Stiles instructed as he rose from the bed, listening to the chaos of noise as he crept towards the door.

Scott followed him, stepping out into the hallway and looking up at the platforms above them.

“That’s coming from the medical bay,” Scott announced.

“Come on,” Stiles encouraged, patting Scott’s shoulder as he sprinted towards the flight of stairs. They pounced up the steps and ran towards the infirmary.

A crowd was gathered in the room, watching on like it was some kind of amusing spectacle.

“Get back!” a familiar voice howled.

“Corey,” Stiles called. He pushed forward, elbowing his way through the crowd.

When he reached the front he caught sight of the boy. His dark chocolate eyes were wide with fear as they darted back and forth across the faces in the crowd. His hands were trembling violently while he brandished the gleaming silver scalpel like a dagger.

“Corey,” Melissa called, her voice soft and calming as she stepped forward slightly so that he could see her. “Put down the knife, sweetie. We’re here to help you.”

“I don’t know you,” Corey argued, pointing the knife at her.

“But you do know me,” Stiles said, stepping forward.

Corey spun around, glaring at Stiles as he pointed the blade at the boy.

“Stiles, stay back,” Melissa instructed.

“It’s okay,” Stiles assured her.

Corey’s hands shook but his grip didn’t weaken on the blade. His face was covered in cuts that had been bandaged, smears of dried blood and seared flesh, and blossoming patches of purple, green and black as heavy bruises marred his face.

“I don’t want to fight you, Corey,” Stiles said calmly. “But I will if I have to.”

“Where are we?!” Corey bellowed, clearly distressed and disorientated.

“District Thirteen,” Stiles answered, stepping aside slightly as he reached for an IV stand. He carefully pulled it free of its base and slid the hooks off the top, leaving only the pole. He stepped back into the centre of the room.

Corey looked confused. “How did we get here?”

“Corey,” Melissa whispered, stepping forward. “We can explain everything, but right now I need you to calm down.”

Corey kept the scalpel focused on Stiles whilst his glare darted between the boy and Melissa. His shoulders heaved up and down with heavy breaths.

Melissa took another step forward, her hands raised in surrender.

“Why don’t you put the scalpel down and we’ll have a proper talk, okay?” she bargained.

“How do I know I can trust you?” Corey asked.

“Because I do,” Stiles answered for her. “She’s family.”

Melissa took another step forward.

Corey lunged forward.

Melissa gasped as the blade of the scalpel tore through the palm of her hand

Stiles leapt into action. He slammed the pole against Corey’s wrist, making the boy cry out in pain and drop the blade.

Stiles swung his makeshift-staff around, smacking the side of the boy’s face with the side of his pole, stunning him just long enough for Stiles to spin the pole around again and knock Corey’s feet out from beneath him.

Corey fell to the ground, his frail limbs flailing about as he scrambled to his feet.

Stiles dropped the pole and sprinted forward. He hooked his arm beneath Corey’s and jerked it back. He grabbed the front of Corey’s shirt and hurled him across the room.

Corey hit the wall with a solid thud, falling to the ground with a pained whimper.

He pushed himself up onto his elbows, looking across the room to where Stiles stood, glaring down at him.

“Melissa?” Stiles called, glancing over his shoulder for a second.

Scott was by her side, wrapping a bandage around the palm of her hand.

“I’m okay,” she said softly. “It’s just a small cut.”

Stiles looked back down at Corey.

“Show’s over,” he shouted at the gathering crowd. “Get back to work.”

One by one the people began to leave, the crowd dissipating as Stiles stepped over to Corey’s side.

“If I help you up, you have to promise to stay calm and let us explain everything. Deal?” Stiles asked.

Corey nodded.

Stiles stretched his arm out, offering his hand to the boy. Corey reached up and let Stiles help him to his feet. He walked the boy over to his bed and sat down with him, offering him a glass of water.

Corey glanced up at Melissa.

“I’m sorry,” he rasped.

“It’s okay,” Melissa assured him. “Can I look at your arm?”

Corey frowned in confusion. He opened his mouth to ask her what she meant, but when he glanced down at his arm his words failed him. His thoughts were washed away as his eyes caught sight of the thick bandage wrapped around his forearm. Swirls of brown and red seeped through the cotton dressing. The smell of iron and copper burnt at his nostrils as he panicked.

His wide eyes stared at the limb in horror and confusion as he willingly surrendered his arm to Melissa.

“It’s okay,” Stiles said reassuringly.

“The lightning fried your tracking device,” Scott explained, standing by Melissa and ready to act if Corey snapped again. “I didn’t want to risk the chip causing any damage so I had to cut it out once we got you out of the arena.”

“Marin did the same to me, only with less precision and more pain,” Stiles told him.

Corey still looked panicked.

“This is Scott,” Stiles introduced. “My best friend and our saviour.”

“The one you volunteered for,” Corey rasped, not daring to look Scott in the eye.

“Yeah,” Stiles whispered. “He’s also one of the four people that got us out of that arena. And, as for your arm, you have nothing to worry about,” he assured the younger boy. “Scott knows what he’s doing; Melissa taught him everything.”

Corey nodded, still stunned.

“So, we’re really in Thirteen?” Corey croaked.

Stiles nodded.

“How is that possible?” Corey gasped.

“Long story short: the surface was bombed but the bunkers beneath were safe. Everyone moved below ground and that’s how they survived,” Scott explained.

“But aren’t you from Twelve?” Corey asked.

“Yeah, we are,” Scott confirmed. “But Twelve was bombed. We had to run and ended up here.”

Corey bowed his head and whispered, “I’m sorry.”

Scott offered him a kind smile.

Corey looked at Stiles. “Who else made it out?”

“You, me and the Mute,” Stiles answered.

“What about Mason?” Corey asked, bolting upright with panic. “What about Derek?”

“They’re alive,” Stiles assured him. He felt his gut churn as he decided to relay the whole truth. “They’re in the Capitol.”

“We tried to get them out,” Scott muttered. “But the Capitol got to them before we could.”

“We have to get them back,” Corey whimpered.

“Corey, look at me,” Stiles instructed.

The boy turned his head, his dark eyes full of fear and worry as he met Stiles’ gaze. Something like guilt glimmered in his eyes as Corey quickly looked away again, bowing his head. His lips trembled around unspoken words as he tried to find his voice. He fidgeted nervously as he sat on the edge of the hospital bed. Finally finding his voice, he said, “I wanted to go back for Derek… He chased after the Desert Wolf and tried to keep her away from you… I wanted to go after him, but then the lightning hit and I couldn’t move.”

“Corey,” Stiles whispered. “It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not,” the boy argued quietly, painful tears welling in his eyes. “Because now they have Derek. And they have Mason too. They’re… they’re in the Capitol… I wish Mason was dead. I wish they were both dead and we were too.”

Stiles opened his mouth to argue, hot tears of rage brewing in his eyes, but he couldn’t.

Corey had a point: if they were dead, they’d be safe.

“That doesn’t matter now. They’re alive,” Stiles repeated. “The Capitol can’t kill them; they won’t risk them becoming martyrs and encouraging the rebellion.”

Stiles glanced down at his hand, his eyes focused on the gleaming silver band that was coiled around his finger. It shone brilliantly as it caught the light.

His voice was quiet but firm as he whispered, “We’re going to get them back.”


	2. Chapter 2

Stiles lay awake that night, nestled beneath the crisp white sheets on the hospital bed as he stared up at the blank ceiling.

“My name is Stiles Stilinski,” he whispered to himself. “I’m from District Twelve. I was in the Hunger Games. I escaped. But Derek… Derek was left behind.”

He drew in a deep breath and tried to calm himself before repeating, “My name is Stiles Stilinski. I’m from District Twelve. I am the victor of the seventy-fourth Hunger Games and survivor of the Quarter Quell. I escaped, but Derek…”

His hands trembled, muscles strained and tense as he ran the ball of his thumb across the smooth surface of the worn down silver ring.

“Derek was left behind,” Stiles finished.

Heavy footsteps approached his door.

He kicked his feet free of the sheets and sat upright. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and waited.

The door opened to reveal the figure of an elderly-looking woman. Her face was marred with creases and set in a firm expression that was intended to intimidate. Her chestnut hair was thin and cut short and she wore the uniform of the security guards.

“Mister Stilinski, I am Araya Calavera, head of security for District Thirteen,” she introduced herself. “I’m aware that you have been discharged from the infirmary but President McCall would like to meet with you first.”

“President?” Stiles seethed. He took a second to calm himself, letting out a heavy sigh before hopefully whispering, “Is there any news?”

“I’m just here to escort you,” Araya replied, maintaining the solid composure of a soldier.

Stiles nodded and followed her out of the medical bay and down the hall. She stopped before the cage-like elevator, waiting for Stiles to catch up before stepping inside. The doors rattled and the chains clunked as the elevator jolted and they rose towards the surface.

Stiels lurched forward, grabbing the railing with a clammy hand and tightening his grip until his white knuckles threatened to break through his skin.

“I would have preferred the stairs,” Stiles muttered, looking down over the deep cylindrical bunker that was the underground system of District Thirteen.

District Thirteen was just as dull and grey as the jumpsuits that were mandatory for everyone in the bunker. They were currently on the thirty-second floor of the subterranean bunker and each floor had a designated area: dorms, storage, medical bay, food hall, security offices, indoor farms and many more. The top few levels were reserved and used as a hangar bay and munitions storage.

There were box-like speaker systems on every wall that would buzz every hour on the hour as a way to test that the system was working. The residents of the bunker had long since blocked out the sound, but it was going to take a long time for the people from Twelve to get used to it. It was an infuriating sound that would make Stiles panic when it caught him off guard; the static hum sounded eerily similar to the chittering wings of a tracker jacker.

On every level, people moved about their surroundings, going about their daily routines.

“Everyone was told that there was nothing left of Thirteen,” he mused.

“The Capitol bombed the surface to rubble,” Araya explained. “We discovered the underground bunkers and, being a military District, we learnt to survive down here. We prepare and train. We ready ourselves for the oncoming fight; the war never stopped for us.”

The elevator grinded to a halt, the metal cage rattling and jolting as it stopped.

Stiles tried to steady himself, biting into his lip as he took a second to compose himself and stepped out onto the level that was their destination.

Araya moved through the bustling crowd with ease, leading Stiles down a short hallway with a door at the end. Across the door was a metal plaque that read ‘Control Room’.

Araya opened the door and ushered Stiles inside.

The boy paused. The room was full of people: technicians at computers, security guards, figures lingering in the shadows and three arguing people in the centre of the room; his father, Melissa, and Rafael.

“I won’t let you use my son like this,” John growled.

“If it’s all the same, dad, I’d like to speak for myself,” Stiles interrupted.

All eyes fell on him.

“There he is, the man of the hour,” Rafe greeted with a disgustingly fake smile. “I know this must be very disorientating for you. I can’t imagine the atrocities you went through in those Games, but I hope you can find some comfort with us. We are well acquainted with trauma and loss in Thirteen and we welcome you and the other tributes here with open arms.”

He looked at the boy as if he expected to be thanked for his hospitality.

Stiles stared at him, unamused and not believing his caring façade for a second.

After a second Rafael nodded and continued, “I understand that you need your rest and time to recover but sadly we don’t have that much time. Are you aware what has happened? When you fired your arrow at the force field you electrocuted the nation. You have sparked riots, strikes and rebellion in seven Districts. We believe that if we keep this energy going, we can unify the Districts against the Capitol. But if we don’t, if we dissipate, we could be waiting another seventy-five years for this opportunity. Everyone in Thirteen is ready.”

“And what about Derek?” Stiles asked. “Is he alive?”

Rafe sighed. “I don’t know. I wish I could say that I did.”

“And there is no way for me to contact my connections within the Capitol,” Peter added from the corner of the room.

Stiles shot the victor a dirty glare before turning his head and ignoring his presence.

“The Capitol has always supressed communication between the Districts, but I’ve analysed their system and we have found a way through. Now, all we need is the perfect message to send.” Rafe focused his attention of Stiles as he said, “Stiles, what we need is you. We need to show everyone that you are alive and well. We need every District to stand up against the Capitol the way you did. So we’re going to shoot a series of propaganda clips and spread them. We’ll stoke the fire of the revolution across the Districts.”

“Why should I help you?” Stiles hissed. “You abandoned your family in Twelve and left Derek in that arena to die.”

John took a step forward, his voice low and soft as he spoke, “Stiles…”

“Derek was the one who was meant to live!” Stiles snapped.

Rafe’s pleasantness dropped.

“Stiles, this revolution is about everyone,” he growled. “It’s about all of is. And we need a voice. We need a leader.”

“Well, guess what? Not all of us can be leaders,” Stiles retorted. “Some of us have to make mistakes. Some of us have to get out hands a little bloody sometimes. Some of us are human!”

The room was silent, all eyes focused on Stiles as he narrowed his glare on Rafe.

When Stiles spoke again, his voice was low and threatening as his cold glare tore through Rafael, “If you wanted a voice for the rebellion, then you should have saved Derek.”

The boy turned and stormed out of the room.

Behind him, he heard Rafe sigh and mutter, “Maybe we should have saved Derek instead.”

Peter said, “No, trust me: no one can do this but him. He just needs time. We need to show him who the real enemy is. There’s a difference between telling and showing… Let him see what they did to Twelve.”

“That’s not the issue,” Melissa argued. “He can’t handle it; the Games destroyed him.” She turned and glared at Peter. “You of all people should know how hard it is to come out of that arena alive.”

“He’s angry,” Peter corrected her. “We need to redirect that anger. We need him to unify the people who have done nothing but kill each other in those arenas for decades. We need a lightning rod. They’ll follow him; he’s the face of the revolution. Let him see it. Let him go home.”

“No,” Melissa argued. “He needs time. Showing him what happened to Twelve will destroy him.”

Rafe sighed heavily and thought for a moment.

“Fine,” he muttered, looking up to meet Peter’s gaze. He nodded and looked over to Araya. “Tell him wheels go up in five.”


	3. Chapter 3

The elevator rumbled to a halt, jostling Stiles. He tried to steady his breathing as he waited for the doors to open. He stepped out into the large hangar, his eyes focused on the sleek black aircraft that was being prepared. It was obviously meant for stealth and speed, its exterior aerodynamic and built of durable, light-weight material that was fitted with reflective sheets designed for camouflage.

Scott stood at the bottom of the ramp that led into the hull of the ship, waiting for Stiles.

“I can’t believe you’re going through with this,” Scott whispered, astonished, as Stiles stepped up to his side. “You can say no.”

Stiles shook his head as he muttered, “I need to see for myself.”

“Okay,” Scott agreed, patting Stiles’ shoulder and ushering him up onto the ship.

“You’re coming too?” Stiles asked as he sat down in one of the seats and fastened the harness.

Scott nodded as he did the same.

“They wanted someone who you trusted in case something went wrong,” the older boy explained. “And, well, I’m the only one who saw what happened to Twelve and can face it again.”

“I’m sorry,” Stiles muttered. “This is all my fault.”

“No, it’s not,” Scott said firmly. “Stiles, you need to remember who the enemy is; Deucalion did all of this, not you.”

The ship rocked slightly and Stiles instinctively grabbed his harness for stability. His jagged nails dug into the palms of his hands, his knuckles white and pressing against his skin.

“It’s okay,” Scott assured him, his voice calm and level as he tried to soothe his friend. “We’ll be there in a couple of minutes. Just breathe.”

Stiles nodded, drawing in deep breaths and trying to calm his racing heartbeat as it thundered in his ears and pounded against his chest. His stomach twisted, churned and knotted with nauseating anxiety.

“I don’t exactly have the best experiences with air craft,” Stiles replied. “Every time I got in one, I got pulled away from Derek and left to believe he was dead.”

Scott bowed his head.

“Hey,” Stiles whispered, gently nudging Scott with his foot. “I don’t blame you. I know you tried.”

The co-pilot stepped into the back of the air craft and smiled sympathetically at Stiles, breaking his military façade for just a second.

“We’re going to set you down in front of the Justice Building,” the man announced. “Thirteen swept everything from top to bottom so it’d be safe. So, when you’re ready, unbuckle yourself and we’ll lower the door.”

Stiles nodded, his hands trembling slightly as he began to unfasten his harness. He felt his knees shake as he rose to his feet, holding onto the straps overhead as the co-pilot began to lower the ramp.

“When you step out, keep your head low until we’re back in the sky,” the co-pilot instructed. “We’ll fly over the District and keep an eye on you, just signal us when you’re ready to come back.”

“Okay,” Stiles agreed, making his way towards the door.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?” Scott called.

“I’m sure,” Stiles confirmed. “This is something I have to do alone.”

The ramp lowered and the co-pilot helped Stiles steady himself as he made his way down the ramp.

Stiles knelt down on the ground, shielding his face with his arms. The ship began to rise, stirring up clouds of dirt as small rocks smacked into Stiles and the wind lashed at any exposed flesh.

After a moment, the wind died down and the quiet hum of the engine faded as the ship rose into the air.

Stiles lowered his arms and stood upright.

His heart sank into his gut as his eyes fell upon the ruins of the Justice Building of District Twelve. The once magnificent building had been caved in, rubble and debris stacked upon itself inside the limits of the few upstanding walls like oats in a bowl.

He slowly turned around.

His breath caught in his lungs.

He swallowed hard as bile rose into his throat, burning at his oesophagus as he fought back tears.

District Twelve was nothing more than a mess of smoking bricks and wood, crumbled ruins of familiar buildings.

He took a few steps forward when a crunch beneath his foot halted him.

He gasped, his lips trembling and tears falling past his thick eyelashes and he glanced down at his foot. He slowly moved his foot, revealing the solid ivory bone of someone’s skull.

He wanted to scream.

He wanted to throw up.

He wanted to run away and hide forever.

Slowly he lifted his eyes to look across the rest of the District, his vision now clear enough to notice the twisted bodies and smouldering corpses, bones left exposed to the elements and other buried beneath rubble or melted together like the disfigured bodies of Pompeii.

Stiles fell to his knees and retched his stomach up, but nothing but bile rose. For a second he was thankful he hadn’t eaten anything. His body was shuddering and he felt weak, he could do nothing more than tremble as heavy tears fell from his eyes, glistening droplets falling to the ground and shattering like glass as they stirred up clouds of ash.

He rose onto his hands and knees and slowly crawled towards the shadows, taking a second to compose himself before rising to his feet.

He slowly made his way through the ruins of District Twelve. His feet scuffed the dirt and the piles of ash, stirring up clouds of dust. He moved by habit, walking down through the familiar streets and towards the charred remains of his childhood house.

He stepped inside, his feet tapping against the worn wooden floorboards as he moved through the familiar surroundings. The smell of ash, blood and debris burnt at his nostrils, suffocating him and stinging his eyes.

He moved back towards the front door, stopping to walk back over to the lounge room window. He craned his neck and brushed aside the ash and dust that had settled on the sill. His fingers ran over the ridges of the initials they had carved into the wood all those years ago.

SS

SM

IL

He remembered the delight on Isaac’s face as Scott taught him how to write his name, tracing a finger through the ash and soot that had always covered the windowsill and leaving an outline for Isaac to follow. He remembered the smiles of their faces as they ignored the danger of getting in trouble with their parents and forged their eternal bonds as a family.

Stiles paused, his fingers gently tracing the final set of initials:

AA

His lips quivered as he whispered, “I’m sorry, Allison.”

He stayed there for a while before he started walking again, making his way through what used to be the market place, past the mines and towards the outskirts of town where the Victor’s Village sat.

It was the only building in District Twelve that hadn’t been destroyed.

He dragged his feet though the courtyard and up onto the small balcony.

Shoving the door open, he hesitated for a second before stepping inside.

The place was eerily silent and undisturbed, as if nothing had ever happened.

Their jackets sat on the hooks by the front door, like they usually did. Stiles picked his jacket up off the hook and shoved it into the satchel that was slung over his shoulder before picking up Derek’s favourite leather jacket. The smooth black leather jacket was worn down and soft to touch. He lifted it to his nose and inhaled the distinct scent: a warm musk of primal sweat, sweetened by the lingering smell of strawberry shampoo and the pines and birch trees that grew just beyond the perimeter fence. Derek.

He hugged it to his chest, burying his face in the jacket as he began to cry.

He brushed aside his tears and composed himself a he shrugged the jacket on, pulling it tight around his slender body as he tried to remember how it felt when Derek hugged him.

He made his way through the house, starting upstairs where he went into his father’s room and collected the old photograph of his mother that sat by his bed. Next, he made his way back into the hallway. Picking the photo off the wall and laying it face down on the table, he pulled the backing off and collected the old coal drawing that his mother had drawn years ago. Finally, he made his way into the kitchen and gathered the medicines that Melissa had prepared, some fresh herbs and ingredients, and anything else she may need.

As he stepped back into the dining room, he froze. His eyes fixed on the vase that sat in the centre of the table, full of wilting flowers: what once was a large bouquet of white lilies and roses.

Stiles swallowed hard, unable to take his eyes off them. He watched as a petal fell from one of the roses, fluttering down to the tabletop. Its edges were wilted and tined golden as death and decay tainted its beauty and took its hold over the fragile petal.

But what was even more disturbing was the one vibrant white rose that sat in the centre of the dying flowers, unperturbed by the decay of those around it.

Stiles cautiously took a step forward and picked it up. He turned it about slightly, watching as the frail white petals sparkled and glittered with a golden sparkle. The bright petals didn’t show any sign of age or decay, but there was a single drop of ruby red blood among the fragile grooves.

A thought struck him.

Deucalion.

His heart sunk as the small rose fell from his hand, the translucent white petals consumed by dark shadows as it fell. It struck the ground with a heavy thud, the sound went straight through Stiles’ hollow body.

He lifted his eyes, looking about his surroundings as he gasped for air and stumbled backwards.

He hurried back into the kitchen, pushing his back up against the wall. The world spun, voices screaming in his ears as he slid down to the ground. Tears streaked his cheeks as his shallow breaths burnt at his lungs.

“Think,” he whispered to himself. He took a deep breath, trying to steady his trembling hands. “Start from the start. My name is Stiles Stilinski. I’m from District Twelve... I volunteered to go into the Hunger Games in Scott’s place. I am the victor of the seventy-fourth Games. I went into the arena again, only… Only this time, Derek was left behind. Deucalion… Deucalion’s not here.”

He drew in a few more deep breaths before rising to his feet.

There was a loud screech followed by the sound of the Capitol anthem.

Stiles slowly made his way through to the lounge room, staring at the soot-covered screen as President Deucalion made his address.

“Citizens, tonight I address all of Beacon Hills as one,” the man started. “Since the Dark Days, Beacon Hills has had an unprecedented era of peace. It is a peace built upon by co-operation and a respect for law and order. In the past weeks you may have heard of outbursts following the actions of a few radicals in the Quarter Quell.”

Stiles felt a deep set rage rise as his blood began to boil in his veins.

“Those who choose this destructive path, your decisions are based on a misunderstanding of how we have survived all these years,” Deucalion continued. “Together. It is a contract: each District supplies the Capitol like blood to the heart, in return the Capitol supplies safety and security. To refuse supplies and deny your work is to put everything in danger. The Capitol is the beating heart of Beacon Hills, nothing can survive without the heart.”

The cameras changed to show multiple cameras, filming live across the entirety of Beacon Hills as peacekeepers pulled rows of people up onto small podiums. Each were forced to their knees, their heads bowed and covered by black sacks as the peacekeepers drew their guns and aimed them at their victims.

“The criminals before you use the crude symbols of rebellion for sedition,” President Deucalion explained. “Which is why all images of Stiles Stilinski and the sparks of rebellion are forbidden, possessing them will be seen as treason punishable by death. And to those who ignore the warnings of history…”

The speakers ran with the unmistakable sound of gunshots, the sound tearing straight through Stiles.

Stiles slowly lifted his gaze to the television, glaring viciously at the image of Deucalion as the man warned, “Prepare to pay the ultimate price.”


	4. Chapter 4

Stiles kept his head low as he moved about the platforms of Thirteen’s underground bunker. He had gotten lost a couple of times but, still, he refused to take the elevator, not while his stomach was churning and he felt like he was going to collapse at any moment. Finally, he made it to the infirmary, where he found Melissa in one of the small office-like storage rooms, sorting through boxes of supplies until she found what she was looking for.

She noticed his presence almost immediately, her thick, dark curls bouncing off her shoulders as she spun to look at him, the dark depths of her eyes filled with worry and pain as she noticed the welling tears in the boy’s eyes and the expression on his face – the same expression that he had when his mother died. She dropped whatever she was holding and rushed Stiles’ side. She pulled him into her arms and held the boy close, her voice a comforting whisper as she said over and over again, “It’s okay. We’re all okay. We’re here now.”

“I brought a photo of my mum and her drawing,” Stiles mumbled, emptying his satchel and offering her the framed photograph and the rolled up piece of paper. “I don’t know where my dad’s room is so I couldn’t take them to him, could you?”

Melissa nodded, taking the photo and the drawing from Stiles and setting them aside. She watched with a motherly concern as Stiles continued to rifle through his bag.

“I also grabbed some herbs and stuff from the kitchen,” Stiles told her, pulling out the small jars of medicines, concoctions and fresh ingredients. “But I didn’t have enough time to get the book for Isaac. I completely forgot. Maybe if I ask Rafe to go back…”

“Stiles,” Melissa interrupted, her voice soft as she levelled her eyes with the boy’s. “It’s okay. If we get another chance to go back, we’ll get it. Until then, Isaac has it memorised. And right now he want’s nothing more than you; he’s thrilled to have you back.”

“Melissa,” Isaac whimpered, leaning into through the doorway. “I’m hungry.”

“I don’t get a break for a while, sweetie,” Melissa said apologetically.

“I’ll take you up to the dining hall,” Stiles offered, reaching out his hand for Isaac to take.

The boy smiled as he slid his hand into Stiles’.

“Stiles…” Melissa called after him, her eyes full of sympathy as she reminded him, “We’re okay.”

 

Stiles sat with Scott – who had finally come back after reporting to Rafe – and Isaac at one of the narrow tables in the dining hall, prodding the unappealing sludge on his plate with his fork.

He still felt nauseous after his visit to Twelve and the mere thought of eating made him sick to his stomach. Every time he shut his eyes he could see the disfigured bodies and smoking buildings and he could still smell the blood and rot, and the taste of ash in his mouth.

“You should try to eat something,” Scott encouraged softly.

Stiles looked down at the grey mush on his plate and opened his mouth to reply when they were interrupted by the obnoxiously loud music of the Capitol anthem.

Stiles look up at the television screens that were secured to the pillars around the room.

Danny Mahealani’s familiar face lit up the screen, a bright smile on his face as he made his introductions, “Hello everyone. To all those watching: if you’re working, put down your work; if you’re eating, you’re going to want to stop because you are not going to want to miss what we have in store for you tonight. There has been rampant discussion about what happened during the final moments of the Quarter Quell and here with us, to shed some light on the situation, is a very special guest. Please welcome, Derek Hale.”

Stiles’ breath fell short of his lips as he rose to his feet. He dropped his fork with a loud crash as he climbed out from the bench, making his way over to the television screen as the camera turned to Derek.

“He’s alive,” Stiles whispered under his breath.

He looked the same, his raven-black hair was cut short and a shadow of a beard darkened his firm jaw. His wide-set eyes were pale beneath his dark brows, his sparkling irises shifting colour in the light; from hazel to pale aventurine, to a shade of light blue – clear, bright and focused, darkened by the lingering shadows beneath them. He was calm and composed and focused, staring straight down the camera with a confidence that fit him so well. But something was wrong: his usually golden skin was dulled, pale and slightly sickly.

He was dressed in a gaudy outfit: a stark, white three-piece suit. The stiff collar sat up around his throat, a pointed prism-shaped collar brooch pinning together the lapels. The sharp edge was pressed against his Adam’s apple like a knife to his throat.

“Derek,” Danny continued. “A lot of people are in the dark about what happened. Could you set the stage for us and walk us through what really happened in those precious few moments?”

“Well, first off, you have to understand that when you’re in the Games you only get one wish and it’s very costly,” Derek said calmly, his husky voice rolling through Stiles and warming him.

“It can cost your life?” Danny asked.

“It can cost more than your life,” Derek corrected.

“What do you mean?” Danny inquired, his brow furrowed with confusion. “What’s more than your life?”

“Well, to murder innocent people, it can cost everything that you are,” Derek explained. “So you hold onto that one wish and, that night, my one wish was to save Stiles. I should have just run off with him earlier, kept him away from everything and kept him safe.”

“But you didn’t. Why? Were you caught up in some plan?”

“No, I was caught up in trying to play allies,” Derek answered. “And then they separated us and… that’s when I lost him… And then the lightning hit and the entire force field around the arena blew out.”

“Yes, but Derek, _Stiles_ was the one who blew it out,” Danny reminded him. “You saw the footage.”

“He didn’t know what he was doing,” Derek argued. “He didn’t know there was a bigger plan going on. Neither of us did. We had no idea.”

“You had no idea? Well, Derek, there are many who say this is suspicious to say the least. It seems as though it was part of some rebel plan, after all it was Stiles’ idea to electrocute the barrier.”

“You think it was part of his plan to be almost killed by Donovan?” Derek countered. “Or part of the plan to be paralysed by lightning? No. We were not part of any rebel plan, we had no idea what was going on, we just wanted to get out of the arena.”

Danny raised his hands defensively and calmly said, “Alright, I believe you. I was going to ask you to speak about the unrest in the Districts but I understand if you are too upset.”

“No,” Derek interrupted. “I can…” He paused for a moment and looked down the camera lens, his eyes meeting Stiles’ as he spoke. “I want everyone who’s watching to stop and think about what a civil war could mean. We almost went extinct once before and now our numbers are even fewer…”

The dining hall filled with the swarming sounds of hushed whispers and quiet conversations as the people of District Thirteen began to talk among themselves.

Derek continued, “Is this really what we want to do? Kill each other off? Killing is not the answer. Everyone needs to lay down their weapons immediately otherwise that’s the end… for all of us.”

The interview was drowned out by the shouts of the people around Stiles as they started an uproar. “No!” cried one of the workers.

“He’s a traitor,” howled another.

“Traitor!” a few others joined in.

Stiles’ eyes filled with tears, his lips trembling around words that failed him. He wanted to tell them they were wrong, he wanted to shout back and shut them up, he wanted to fight every last one of them.

He turned back to look at the screen, listening to the dulled volume.  

“Are you calling for a cease fire?” Danny asked.

“Yes,” Derek replied with a curt nod. “Violence is not the answer. This is not the path to change.”

The shouting grew louder, escalating to a deafening roar.

Stiles cupped his hands over his ears, trying to block out the noise, but it didn’t work. He dropped his hands, turned and picked up his heels, racing out of the hall, but the haunting sounds of the screaming civilians followed him.

 

Stiles sat alone in a quiet room, his head bowed as he slowly spun the silver ring around his slender finger.

Scott lingered by the doorway, watching his friend with concern and sympathetic pain. He took a cautious step into the room, pausing for a moment to see if Stiles would react. When he didn’t, Scott made his way into the room, crossing the space and sitting down next to Stiles. He reached around the boy and gently patted his slender shoulders, pulling him into the comfort of his warm embrace.

“There can’t be a cease fire,” Stiles muttered, unable to take his eyes off the gleaming silver ring. “Not after everything Deucalion has done.”

“They need to pick the weapons up first,” Scott pointed out. “Many of the Districts still don’t have the courage to fight.”

“Why do you think he said that?” Stiles asked.

Scott let out a heavy sigh and shrugged.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “Maybe he was forced? Maybe he made some kind of deal to protect you?”

“He’s still in the Games,” Stiles muttered, sitting upright and suddenly alert. “He’s still fighting.”

“What do you mean?” Scott asked.

“He’s still fighting to keep everyone safe,” Stiles explained. “That’s what he does.”

“And you and I both know he will not stop fighting to protect those he loves,” Scott reminded him. “There won’t be a cease fire, we just have to make sure that we keep those we love out of the cross hairs.”

“Derek’s right in the centre of the cross hairs,” Stiles pointed out.

“Then we’ll get him out.”

Stiles bowed his head again, looking back down at the ring.

“Stiles, look at me,” Scott encouraged.

The boy looked up, meeting his friend’s soft gaze as Scott promised, “We’re going to get him back.”


	5. Chapter 5

Stiles bolted upright in the bed. His wail tore at his throat and left him breathless. His lungs burnt painfully for air as hot tears trailed down his cheeks. He thrashed about, kicking at the sheets that entangled his legs and dragged at his limbs like heavy chains or the hands of the damned. The friction of the starchy cotton burnt at his skin.

He screamed louder, tears coursing his cheeks as he failed to free himself or shake the lingering illusions of his nightmares.

He stilled and took a second, looking around as he reminded himself where he was. The images of the hands that grabbed at his legs or chains that bound him to the bed began to fade.

The door slid open and someone bolted into the room.

“It’s okay,” Stiles muttered. “I’m okay. It was just a nightmare.”

Derek sighed, his bright eyes full of worry as he sat down on the edge of the bed.

“It’s okay,” Derek assured him. “I get them too.”

Stiles crept forward and leant against Derek’s side, resting his head on the older boy’s shoulder. Derek wrapped his arm around the boy’s waist, holding him close. He gently brushed the glistening tears off Stiles’ pale cheeks with his free hand.

“Where were you?” Stiles whimpered, his voice quiet and strained.

Derek rested his cheek atop Stiles’ head and nuzzled his face into the boy’s unkempt locks. “I couldn’t sleep and I didn’t want to wake you.”

“Can you please stay with me?”

Derek nodded and crawled up onto the bed. He shuffled across the mattress and laid down beside Stiles. He rolled onto his side and pulled the smaller boy back against the warmth and security of his chest.

He nuzzled his face into the curve of Stiles’ shoulder and whispered, “Always.”

Stiles jolted awake with a short gasp.

He clamped his hand over his mouth, stopping himself from crying out and waking the others in the room.

He looked around, feeling his heart sink into his stomach and tears well in his eyes as he realised that Derek wasn’t there.

Stiles’ lips trembled as he exhaled heavily and sank back against the bed.

“Hey,” a quiet voice whispered from across the room.

Stiles rolled onto his side, looking across the dully lit cabin to meet the other boy’s gaze.

Isaac looked at him with sparkling blue eyes as he quietly asked, “Can’t sleep?”

Stiles shook his head. He watched as Isaac pulled back his blanket and crossed the cabin. He smiled at the younger boy and shuffled back on his bed, holding up the edge of the blanket for Isaac to curl up with him.

“Why aren’t you sleeping?” Stiles asked the boy.

“I don’t like it here,” Isaac admitted. “There’s no meadow and the rooms are like cages. There aren’t any drawings on the walls or anything. It reminds me of the box my dad used to lock me in…”

Stiles pulled the boy close. He never had the words to comfort the boy; there had been rumours, and Stiles knew what it was like to face that kind of abuse. He cradled Isaac to his chest and offered, “Maybe we should draw on the walls.”

“We’re not allowed to,” Isaac mumbled disheartened. “It’s against the rules.”

Stiles watched the boy’s eyes darken with sorrow as he bowed his head. He felt Isaac’s shoulders rise and fall with slow breaths.

After a moment of quiet, Isaac looked back up at Stiles and whispered, “Tell me what’s happening. I’m good at keeping secrets.”

Stiles sighed and said, “No-one hates the Capitol more than me. I want to help, but I keep thinking that even if we win this, even if we get the Districts on our side, what happens then? What happens to Derek? I know he’s not safe there, but he’s not safe here either.”

“No-one’s going to hurt him: he’s too important,” Isaac said. “They need him to get to you.”

“Even so, I can’t do anything that’ll convince Thirteen that Derek’s not a traitor,” Stiles whispered. “I can’t do or say anything that will convince them to save him.”

“I don’t think you know how important you are to them,” Isaac replied. “You just have to ask. You could demand almost anything and they’d have to agree.”

Stiles smiled and reached across to brush aside one of Isaac’s sandy curls. “I should wake you up more often.”

Isaac beamed with pride, his white teeth translucent in the dark.

Stiles couldn’t help but smile in return.

“We should get some sleep,” the older boy encourages softly.

Isaac smiled sweetly and nodded.

Stiles laid his arm around Isaac’s shoulders and held the boy close to his chest.

Isaac nuzzled into his warmth, drawing in a couple of deep breaths before falling fast asleep.

Stiles buried his face in the mess of the boy’s golden curls, inhaling the sweet scent of strawberries.

After a little while, Stiles finally settled enough that exhaustion took over and his heavy eyes fell shut.


	6. Chapter 6

“Thank you for agreeing to meet with me,” Stiles started, trying to stay calm and democratic as he looked up at Rafael and the others in the Control Room. “I want to be the face of your rebellion but I have some conditions.”

Rafe nodded.

Stiles reached into the pocket of the dull grey jumpsuit he wore and pulled out a neatly folded piece of paper. He unfurled it and began to read what he had written aloud, “The captured tributes, Derek Hale and Mason Hewitt, are to be rescued at the earliest opportunity. If and when they are rescued they will be given full pardon and no punishment will be given.”

Rafael thought about it for a moment before answering, “No.”

Stiles felt his jaw lock as rage began to boil his blood.

“It’s not their fault you abandoned them in the arena,” Stiles seethed, growling through his gritted teeth as he tried to maintain his control over his emotions. “They’re just saying and doing anything they need to do in order to survive and keep the people they love safe.”

“Individuals citizens don’t make demands in Thirteen,” Rafe told him. “There will be a tribunal and a fair judgment. That is all. Thank you.”

Stiles’ democratic tone dropped as his shoulders rose and fell. He was livid with rage as he ordered, “The victors will be rescued and granted immunity. You will announce that to the whole of Thirteen and you will hold yourself and your government responsible or you will find yourself someone else to lead the rebellion.”

In the corner of the room, Stiles saw Peter’s face brighten with a smirk as he whispered, “There it is. There’s the spark.” Peter looked towards Rafe and explained, “We are losing ground because people are losing hope, it’s worth the risk. _He_ ’s worth the risk.”

Rafe seemed pensive. He seriously contemplated everything for a moment before looking up at the boy and asking, “Do you have any other conditions?”

“Yes,” Stiles replied boldly. “Scott and I get to go to the surface to hunt or forage for resources that Melissa can use and Isaac gets to paint his room.”

 

Stiles made his way back downstairs, looking into the dining hall and the infirmary as he tried to find Scott and Isaac before returning to their quarters.

He pulled the doors open to see Corey, crouched before the wall.

The boy spun around to look at Stiles. He dropped the markers he was holding and scrambled to his feet.

Stiles frowned, slightly confused, before looking at what Corey was so worried about. He had drawn a magnificent view of a field across the plan white walls of the cabin. He had put detail into everything, the wavering emerald green blades of grass, the frail petals of the flowers – daises, dandelions, stalks of lavender, small roses on thick vines, and several others – and the foresight of how the golden glow of the daylight would light the field but cast shadows over certain spots.

“That’s incredible,” Stiles whispered.

Corey bowed his head slightly and muttered, “I heard Scott talking to Melissa about how Isaac missed the meadow and painting is calming for me, so I borrowed some markers from the medical bay, but I… I didn’t know what the meadow in District Twelve looked like so…”

“It’s perfect,” Stiles said softly. “Better than the real thing.”

Stiles watched as Corey absent-mindedly grabbed at his forearm where the tracker had been, gripping the flesh and wringing it.

“Hey,” Stiles called in a hushed voice as he stepped over to Corey’s side and gently setting his hand over the younger boy’s. “Isaac’s going to love it.”

“I’m sorry,” Corey whispered apologetically. “For everything. I should have done something. I should have saved Mason and Derek. I should have…”

Stiles stepped forward and pulled the boy into his arms.

He felt Corey’s shoulders tremble with violent sobs as soft tears soaked into the grey fabric of Stiles’ jumpsuit.

“It’ll be okay,” Stiles whispered. “I’ve talked to the people in charge, I’ve made demands that Derek and Mason be rescued and pardoned… and for Isaac to paint his room so you won’t get in trouble for that.”

Corey’s sobs turned into a weak chuckle. He took a step back wiped the tears off his cheeks with the back of his hands as he mumbled, “I’ve apologised a million times to Melissa for hurting her and she says it’s okay but I still feel really bad about it.”

“That’s good,” Stiles replied. “If you still feel guilt then you still have empathy. Don’t lose it, because, as soon as you do, the Capitol has won; they’ve made you into a monster.”

There was a quiet gasp as footsteps rushed into the room.

Stiles and Corey turned to see Isaac, his vibrant sapphire eyes focused on the painted wall. The boy’s teal irises glittered as a bright smile lit up his face. He bounced from foot to foot, too excited to squeal.

“Is that for me?” he asked.

“Yeah, it is,” Corey whispered.

Isaac bounced up and down on the spot, squealing with joy.

Scott stood in the doorway, winching at the sound of Isaac’s shrieks and chuckling at the younger boy’s joy before looking at Stiles and saying, “We are going to get in so much trouble for this.”

“No, we’re not,” Stiles assured him. “I have ways of persuading your dad into letting us get away with some things.”

Scott smiled mischievously but it quickly fell from his face as he announced, “Rafe’s calling an assembly.”


	7. Chapter 7

The crowd gathered in the common place of one of the higher levels. People filled the walkways overhead, looking out over the railings at the swarm of people that gathered in the lower level.

Scott held onto Isaac’s hand, scared that the young boy would get lost in the crowd. Stiles stayed by his friend’s side, gently tugging at Corey’s sleeve every now and then to make sure he didn’t get lost either.

Stiles looked across the sea of people, the grey jumpsuits melding together like a river of murky sludge. He searched the faces for the rest of their family.

Melissa stood over by the medical team, dressed in white scrubs and supervising the patients they escorted from the infirmary.

The Mute stood beside her, his intimidating appearance keeping the more skittish patients in check. He was still one of her patients, not yet released from the infirmary due to the need for supervision over their injuries and mental state – like Corey.

Occasionally Melissa would sign something to the Mute and the man would nod and look around before pointing someone out or signing back a reply. After a minute or so, the Mute looked towards them, gently tapped Melissa’s shoulder and pointed them out.

Stiles smiled and waved to her. He saw the tension in her shoulders drop.

Across the distance, the Mute relayed Melissa’s message, signing, ‘Are you all okay?’

Stiles replied, ‘Yes, but none of us like crowds.’

The Mute nodded and with a flurry of motions signed, ‘Keep an eye on Corey, he’s still not well. If any of you have to leave, you can. Just wait in the infirmary until the assembly is over. If you can make it through, we’ll meet you there anyway.’

Stiles nodded and signed, ‘We’ll be okay; being Rafe, we’re only going to fall asleep from boredom.’

The Mute grinned and chuckled, relaying the message to Melissa who tried to glare at the boys to scold them, but was too caught up in trying to hide her smile that it failed.

Stiles smirked, turning away from Melissa and looking across the large room. In the distance – towards the front of the crowd – were two familiar faces: Chris and his dad. They were talking quietly to each other, looking across the crowd for the others.

Stiles was about to call out to them when Rafael stepped forward on the podium that overlooked the crowd.

A hush fell over Thirteen as Rafe began, “Hello everyone, and welcome to our friends from District Twelve. We share with you the sorrow of your losses and hope that you find comfort and security with us in District Thirteen.”

Scott and Stiles simultaneously rolled their eyes.

“I have some good news,” Rafael announced. “Stiles Stilinski has agreed to be the face of the rebellion.”

The man standing in front of them glanced over his shoulder, eyeing the boy up before turning his attention back to Rafe.

A tense anxiety twisted his stomach.

“In return we will make every effort at the earliest possible chance to ensure the rescue of the captured victors: Derek Hale and Mason Hewitt,” Rafe announced.

The people of the District began to talk among themselves, the hushed whispers and shocked gasps building upon one another until it became a rising crescendo of noise.

Rafe continued, “And when the victors are rescued, they will be granted full pardon.”

There was a second of quiet before the crowd erupted in disagreement, shouting, protesting and screaming at the top of their lungs as they all demanded for their voices to be heard.

It was too much.

Stiles cupped his hands over his ears, the deafening cries dulled slightly as if he were underwater. His knees weakened and collapsed beneath him. He fell to the ground, arching over his shuddering body as the noise grew louder.

Black shadows moved about him.

The screams returned.

They multiplied, intensified, filling their ears with the sounds of screaming loved ones: Isaac, Scott, Allison, Chris, Deaton, Melissa, his father, his mother, Derek and thousands of others he never knew.

“It’s not real,” He whispered to himself, his voice lost beneath the volume of cries.

Heavy tears fell from his eyes, splashing against the ground. His lip trembled, too weak to scream.

The piercing screeches, deafening cries and broken wails crippled him.

Among the screams, Stiles could hear Scott’s voice as the boy called to him, but Stiles couldn’t reply.

Stiles pried his eyes open, peering through the suffocating mess of fluttering birds and inky black feathers, but he couldn’t see anything.

Warm hands grabbed his shoulders, pulling him to his feet and guiding him through the mess of birds.

He stumbled and staggered, leaning against the person who guided him.

They grabbed his shoulders and pulled him close, cradling his trembling body against their chest and shielding him as they moved.

Stiles opened his eyes, squinting past the flittering black shapes. His face was contorted with agony as glistening tears fell from his eyes.

A wave of jabberjays slammed into him, hurling him away from the warm figure and knocking him to the ground. The tides of birds swarmed around them, feathers raining over them. The birds swooped down at them. Sharp beaks and jagged talons tore open exposed flesh and shredded their clothes.

The light strobed as shadows passed over their faces. The noise drowned out everything else, a dull roar that numbed him. The screams no longer affected him, nor did the warm streams of blood that covered his body.

One of the birds flew in low, smacking into the side of Stiles’ face.

His vision went black for a second.

He blinked his eyes open.

Everything was still and quiet.

He had been laid atop of the soft sheets of a hospital bed and found himself staring up at the blank ceiling of the infirmary. His lips quivered with frail breaths as he slowly sat up.

A figure sat by his bed, his dark eyes full of worry as he watched Stiles’ every move.

“Scott?” Stiles whispered, blinking heavily to clear the memory. “What happened? I don’t … I was back in the arena.”

“You had a panic attack,” Scott replied quietly.

“That wasn’t a panic attack,” Stiles argued.

“It was a different kind, one that is triggered by bad memories,” Scott explained. “The crowd and the sound got too much for you and Isaac. Corey took Isaac back to our room and I brought you here, but you were… caught up in the memory.”

Stiles noticed the dark bruise forming under Scott’s eye. His breath caught in his throat as his heart skipped a beat.

“I… I didn’t hit you, did I?” Stiles gasped.

“It’s okay,” Scott whispered. “It was only a light hit.”

Stiles felt his stomach lurch with guilt, his breath falling short as he shook his head frantically.

“Stiles, look at me,” Scott encouraged. “You could have done a lot worse, and – to be honest – I’m glad you were fighting; if you keep fighting, you stand a chance of winning.”

“Not if I hurt my friends while doing so,” Stiles argued.

“It’ll heal,” Scott assured him.

“And what about everyone else?” Stiles asked. “They all hate me now. All because I want to free the two people they think are traitors.”

“Stiles, you made the right choice,” Scott reassured him softly. “To hell with them. You did good, okay? You did good.”

 

There was a quiet knock at the door.

Lydia let out a heavy sigh and beckoned, “Enter.”

John and Rafael stepped into her quarters.

“Hello, Lydia,” John greeted. “Your dress looks lovely.”

“Thank you,” Lydia said, smiling bashfully as she gave it a small twirl. “Melissa altered it for me.”

“Stiles has agreed to be the spark of the rebellion,” Rafe told her, not bothering with pleasantries. “But his fire has burnt out. We need you on his team. We need someone he trusts.”

Lydia’s sweet smile dropped as she glared at the man. “What about Peter?”

“Stiles blames him for leaving Derek in the arena,” John explained. “When we pulled him out of the arena, Scott told him that Derek had been left behind and Stiles attacked Peter and tried to stab him with a syringe.”

“Tried?” Lydia muttered under her breath, a small smirk lifting the corners of her soft pink lips. “You should have let him.”

After a moment Lydia looked at John apologetically as she said, “Aiding rebels is not really my forte.”

“What about Stiles?” John asked. “Is helping him in your skill set?”

Lydia didn’t respond.

“Your days in the Capitol are over, regardless of what happens here,” Rafe said, his voice low and firm. “So if you want to play the prisoner of war, then you can stay here and rot; we’ll find someone else to be Stiles’ escort.”

Rafe turned to leave, storming towards the door.

“Who?” Lydia asked, her voice halting the man.

Rafe scoffed.

“Anyone,” he replied. “Everyone can be replaced.”

“Not Stiles,” Lydia said quietly.

She heard Rafe let out a heavy sigh as he turned around and looked at her, paying attention to her now.

“There isn’t a soul in this dungeon that knows the first thing about Stiles, family excluded,” she said, politely nodding towards John. “But even they don’t know how to help Stiles get through everything he faced in the Capitol and the Games, or how to ready him for another battle.”

Rafe looked at John and the man nodded, confirming what she had said.

Lydia stepped forward, narrowing her glare on Rafe. “You honestly think that any one of your people is capable of taking my place?”

“I know there’s not and no-one can,” Rafe admitted.

Lydia smiled boastfully. “Exactly. But even I can’t get Stiles to do everything you ask of him.”

“Find a way to do so,” Rafe ordered. “Or else.”

“Or else what?” Lydia asked, feigning fear. “You’ll kill me? Exile me?”

“Without a second thought,” Rafe answered.

“Then you’d lose not only Stiles but all of us,” John pointed out. He turned towards the man, glaring at him threateningly as he added, “Lydia is family to us. You dare hurt her and you’ll regret ever drawing breath.”

Rafe nodded curtly and turned to leave.

John let out a heavy sigh and followed, halting in the doorway for a moment and turning back to Lydia.

“I mean it,” he said softly. “You’re family.”

Lydia smiled and blushed slightly. “Thank you.”

“Don’t let him bully you,” John instructed. “And if he steps out of line, you have my permission to put him in his place.”

“You might regret that,” Lydia teased.

John shrugged. “Stiles and I have had our turns, I figure you’re next; it’s about time you got even with him too.”

Lydia chuckled.

John turned to leave.

“John,” Lydia called after him.

The man turned back to look at her again.

“You take care of yourself and the others,” Lydia said softly. “I promise, I’ll do everything I can to take care of Stiles.”

John nodded and whispered, “I know you’ll do right by him.”

He paused for a moment, noticing how Lydia’s expression grew more solemn as she took on her responsibilities.

“You’re not alone,” John assured her. “We’re all here for you and Stiles if you need us.”

Lydia smiled and nodded.

John smiled back, turning to leave before quickly adding, “And that dress really does look lovely on you.”

 

Stiles sat at one of the tables in the dining hall. He poked at the food on his plate, staring into oblivion. He was avoiding Scott’s worried gaze and hadn’t said a word since yesterday, except for a brief hello to Melissa and the Mute when they visited the medical bay that morning.

Isaac sat beside them, talking quietly to Corey and thanking him for the flowers he drew on their bedroom wall.

Another figure approached them and sat down next to Stiles.

He lifted his eyes, looking at her.

The waves of her strawberry blonde hair were braided into a crown around her head. Her jumpsuit had been altered into a cocktail dress that was decorated with white fabric that had been cut into the shape of flowers and layered to give it depth. Her bright jade eyes met his, glittering as she smiled.

It took him a moment before he realised who it was.

“Lydia?” Stiles whispered.

“Hello, darling,” Lydia greeted, opening her arms and welcoming the boy into her embrace.

“What are you doing here?” Stiles asked as he sat back.

“I’m a political refugee,” Lydia replied, keeping her voice low as to try not to be heard.

“They rescued you?”

“’Rescued’ isn’t the term I’d use, but yes.” Lydia reached across the table and took the glass of water that Scott offered her, taking it with a kind smile. “You and I were both in the dark about everything that has happened. Anyway, the reason I’m here – other than to see your gorgeous face – is to bring you this.”

She set a large black folder down on the table.

Stiles opened the folder, looking at the gorgeous sketches and drawings of outfits. They were coloured in with pencils, the line work gentle and meticulous. They seemed familiar, outfits he had seen before, _worn_ before. He ran his fingers down the drawing of the black suits that rained white roses down the centre of the city as the name fell past his lips in a soft whisper. “Deaton.”

“He made everyone promise not to show you this until you agreed to join the revolution of your own accord,” Lydia explained.

Stiles turned the page, looking at Deaton’s design for a suit of armour: durable and flexible, perfect for fighting but also quite flattering to a boy of his body type. It was black in design with an open collar that was specifically designed to reveal Allison’s necklace. With it, was the blueprints for a spear, designed to be compactable so that Stiles could travel with it without needing to juggle it in order to fight with daggers, crossbows, longbows or whatever else he chose to use.

“It’s gorgeous,” Stiles muttered.

“He knew the risks,” Lydia said solemnly. “As do we all. He believed in this revolution.”

Stiles turned the page, his eyes drawn to the neat scrawl of handwriting that read,

 

I’m still betting on you.

– Deaton

 

Lydia looked at him, levelling her gaze with Stiles’ as she said softly, “He believed in you.”


	8. Chapter 8

Stiles stood on a small podium, surrounded by metal framework that was covered in small white lights. He gently ran his finger across the grooves of Allison’s pendant, feeling the cool metal in his hand.

“You look stunning, Stiles,” Lydia complimented as she looked the boy up and down. “Everyone’s either going to want to kiss you, kill you or be you.”

“Lydia,” Stiles whispered, his voice strained and cracking. He couched and cleared his throat, looking at her as he confessed, “I honestly don’t think I can do this.”

“Just keep your chin up,” Lydia instructed. “Read the line and give it some emotion. That’s all you have to do. It’s just like the interviews. I’ll be right here for you, you just have to look at me.”

Stiles sighed and nodded.

“Run it through,” Lydia encouraged. “You deliver your line and raise the flag pole high into the air, the animators will handle everything else.”

Stiles nodded.

“Okay, Stiles,” Rafe called over the intercom system. “We’re going to start with you down on one knee.”

Stiles did as he was instructed, kneeling down on the podium. He winced slightly as a bolt of pain ran up his thigh. He drew in a deep breath and exhaled heavily, steadying himself.

“Okay, Stiles, I want you to count to five in your head and then rise to your feet and deliver your line,” Rafe instructed. “Starting now.”

Stiles counted down and did as he was told. He rose on the podium and stood proud, boldly reciting his line, “People of Beacon Hills, we strive – we fight – to end this hunger for justice.”

He lifted the flag high into the air.

The room was silent.

A slow clap interrupted them as a lean figure entered.

Stiles turned his eyes to the man.

His light brown hair was sleeked back to reveal his firm features and worn face. His vibrant blue irises were darkened by the heavy, sleepless bags beneath his eyes. His face was twisted into his usual sly smirk as if he were laughing at his own private joke.

“And that, my friends, is how a revolution dies,” Peter announced. He stepped further out of the shadows, looking up at Stiles as he greeted, “Hey, kid.”

Stiles didn’t reply. His grip tightened around the pole in his hands.

“Is that how you greet an old friend?” Peter asked.

“Maybe I don’t see you as a friend,” Stiles growled.

Peter’s smirk grew wider as he brushed off that comment and turned to face the booth where Rafe and the others stood. “I’d like to call a conference, if you could all come in here for a minute.”

Rafe rolled his eyes and nodded.

Scott, Corey, Rafael and Araya joined them in the room, eyeing Peter suspiciously.

“Indulge me for a moment,” Peter encouraged. “Let’s, everybody, think of a moment when Stiles Stilinski genuinely moved you. Not when you were jealous of how he looked or when his outfits went up in flames, not when he showed you he could make a half-way decent shot with and arrow or fought someone with some impressive staff skills, and not when Derek made you like him, but when _he_ genuinely moved you.”

“When he volunteered for Scott at the Reaping,” Lydia offered.

Stiles glanced across the room at Scott. The older boy turned to meet his gaze but quickly looked away, bowing his head as if guilty of something.

Peter pointed at her and excitedly said, “An excellent example. What else?”

Lydia spoke up again, “When he saved Kira from Ennis in the seventy-fourth Games.”

“Good,” Peter replied. “And?”

“When he held Kira as she died,” Lydia answered. “And laid her down with those glowing flowers.”

“Or when he sang for Allison and laid her among a bed of flowers,” Scott added.

Stiles swallowed hard, tears brewing in his eyes as he remembered how Allison had laid, still and peaceful, among the cushions of roses, daisies, lavender and lilies, their pale petals making her skin glow.

“Oh, yes,” Peter muttered. “Who didn’t get choked up over that?”

“And when he comforted Hayden and Meredith in the Quarter Quell,” Araya Calavera offered.

“Good,” Peter said confidently before asking, “Now, what do these all have in common?”

“No-one told him what to do,” Scott answered.

Lydia nodded. “They were unscripted, yes. So maybe we should leave him alone to do what he does best.”

Rafael turned to look at Peter, narrowing his glare on the man. “Are you suggesting we throw him into battle?”

Peter shrugged slightly, but the glint in his eyes suggested that Rafe had gotten the answer right.

“I cannot sanction an unarmed civilian into the front lines,” Rafe said firmly. “This is not the Capitol.”

Stiles and Lydia scoffed.

Before Rafe could speak, Peter answered, “That is exactly what I’m suggesting. Put him in the field.”

Rafe shook his head and firmly said, “No. No way. We can’t protect him.”

“You can’t script him either,” Peter pointed out. “You want something genuine for the symbol of the rebellion then it has to come from him. Maybe there’s someplace safer, somewhere we can send him and protect him?”

“District Nine reported heavy bombing a few days ago,” Araya announced. “But we can’t guarantee his safety.”

“You can never guarantee my safety,” Stiles replied, his voice shocking everyone. He turned and looked at Rafe with a firm glare as he said, “I want to go.”

“I want to go too,” Corey announced. “Nine is my District, my home. I’m another surviving victor, it’d add insult to injury if they find out I’m alive too.”

“What if you get attacked?” Rafe asked.

“Give me a weapon and I’ll defend myself,” Stiles replied confidently.

“And if you get killed?” Rafe pressed.

Stiles met the man’s gaze as he boldly said, “Make sure you get it on camera.”

 

Araya escorted Stiles up to the hangar bay, stopping in the weaponry to fit Stiles with his weapons, including the compactable staff that Deaton had designed and a bow that was accompanied with a quiver of arrows, each with coloured tabs around the shaft that indicated what they were: black for normal, white for electrocuting, yellow for incendiary, and red for explosive.

As Stiles stepped back into the large room, his eyes fell upon the rows of munitions: stacks of missiles and anti-aircraft defences.

Araya escorted him across the expansive storage room and towards the stairs that led up to the hangar bay.

“You had all of this and you just left the Districts to suffer?” Stiles mused, his eyes focused on the heavy artillery.

“It’s not that simple, Stiles,” Araya replied. “We barely survived. We weren’t in any shape to fight back. Sure, we could have bombed the Capitol, but then they’d retaliate with twice the fire power, then what? There would be no-one left to claim victory.”

“Ironic,” Stiles muttered, his voice full of bitterness as he looked at the woman. “That’s exactly what Derek said and you all called him a traitor.”

Araya sighed and bowed her head.

Stiles made his way up the stairs and into the hangar bay. He crossed towards the ship that was being readied for take-off.

“Stiles, may I introduce you to my brother, Severo,” Araya announced, pointing out a burly young man with dark hair. “He’s the media specialist for District Thirteen.”

Severo extended his hand and greeted, “It’s pleasure to meet you.”

Stiles nodded and returned the handshake.

“This is my crew,” Severo said, indicating each of the four people behind him and introducing them by name.

“Scott and I will also be accompanying the two of you,” Araya announced, nodding towards Scott, who was equipped with a bow and arrows and was already on board the aircraft, strapping Corey into his harness.

Scott turned to look at them, offering his friend a comforting smile.

“My very own security detail,” Stiles said sarcastically.

“Wheels up in two,” the pilot called.

The group climbed aboard the aircraft, setting aside their equipment and weapons and fastening their harnesses.

Scott sat across from Stiles, talking quietly to Corey as the engines began to whirl.

The plane shook as it rose.

Stiles grabbed his harness, closing his eyes and breathing deeply. When he felt calm enough to open his eyes, he noticed that the man next to him, Jones, held onto his harness with a vice grip as well.

“Do you hate flying too?” Stiles asked him.

“You won’t get much chit chat from him,” Severo called across the hull of the aircraft. “He’s an Avox: the Capitol cut out his tongue.”

Stiles looked back at the man, his hands trembling as he slowly released his grip on his harness and signed, ‘Do you know sign language?’

Jones smiled and nodded.

Stiles offered him a sympathetic look as he signed, ‘I’m sorry.’

Jones frowned in confusion and asked, ‘About what?’

‘I’m sorry about how the Capitol treated you,’ Stiles replied. ‘You deserve better.’

The man’s face brightened with a sweet smile as he signed, ‘Don’t be sorry; none of this is your fault.’

“Wow, Jones,” Severo muttered with a slight chuckle. “I’ve never seen you so chatty.”

Jones rolled his eyes.

The plane jolted and Stiles gasped, grabbing his harness and gulping down shallow breaths. His heart beat against his ribs as he tried desperately to calm himself.

Jones him reached over and cupped his hand over Stiles’.

Stiles looked up at him.

‘Don’t worry,’ Jones signed, his own hands trembling slightly. ‘You get used to it.’

‘Really? Or are you just telling me that to make me feel better?’ Stiles asked.

Jones chuckled slightly and nodded. ‘I lied. I hate flying too.’

 

The plane settled over the District, lowering into a clearing.

The co-pilot stepped into the back of the aircraft and helped everyone unfasten their harnesses.

“We’ll be back for you in an hour,” the co-pilot announced. “Radio us if you need us back here sooner or if you need more time.”

Scott helped Stiles and Corey to their feet.

Stiles grabbed a hold of the straps that hung for the roof as he reached back to his weapons with his free hand, shrugging the quiver and bow onto his back and grabbed his staff and locking it onto his belt.

“When you disembark, keep your heads low until we’re up in the air,” the co-pilot instructed, reaching for the controls to the ramp out the back of the ship. “Ready?”

“Ready,” Araya called back.

The co-pilot lowered the ramp and the group made their way out onto solid ground. They knelt down on the ground, shielding their faces with their arms.

The ship began to rise, stirring up clouds of dirt and lashing gusts of wind. After a moment, the wind died down and the quiet hum of the engine faded as the ship rose into the air.

Stiles lowered his arms and stood upright. His heart sank into his gut as his eyes fell upon the ruins of the Justice Building of District Nine, just like Twelve. The once magnificent building had been reduced to rubble and dust. He slowly turned around.

His breath caught in his lungs.

He swallowed hard as bile rose into his throat, burning at his oesophagus as he fought back tears.

Just like Twelve, the District was nothing more than a mess of smoking bricks and wood, crumbled ruins of buildings. A few structures remained standing, but nothing that could be considered habitable.

A small group of people came to meet them, a strong figure leading the way.

“Araya Calavera, District Thirteen,” Araya greeted, shaking the man’s hand. “This is my brother, Severo, and his crew, Scott McCall, Stiles Stilinski and-”

“Corey,” the man interrupted, glaring at the boy. “You’re still alive?”

Corey bowed his head.

The man huffed, snarling with distain before turning his attention to Araya and Stiles, “The survivors are in the hospital, follow me.”

Araya took the lead, following the man towards the large building.

Scott gently patted Stiles’ shoulder as they all began to follow.

“Do you know that guy?” Stiles asked, nodding towards the gruff man who had greeted them.

Corey nodded and muttered, “He’s my dad.”

Stiles froze for a moment, unsure of how he should reply. He laid his arm around Corey’s shoulders and pulled the boy close as they made their way towards the District hospital.

As they walked through the door, Stiles was hit by the gut-churning stench of blood and decay. His eyes filled with burning tears as a wave of sickening, suffocating bile rose into his throat.

“There’s a mass grave a few miles west,” Corey’s father explained. “But I can’t spare the man power to move the dead. The hospital is through the curtains.”

“Isn’t it dangerous to have all of your wounded in one place?” Scott asked.

“I couldn’t leave them out there to die.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Scott said calmly.

“I know the Capitol is targeting us and if we spread out then maybe we would survive another attack, but if I spread the wounded across the District we can’t treat them. The best we can do is divide the living and the dead to stop infection and disease,” the man replied. “I don’t have any other options. If you have anything to offer, speak up. If not, then at least you can give these people hope.”

Thin plastic strips formed a curtain that divided the hallway from the large shed that sheltered the wounded. From beyond the curtain, he could hear the quiet chatter of the living and the cries of wounded men, women and children.

Stiles pedalled backwards, shaking his head frantically.

“Stiles,” Scott whispered.

“Don’t throw me in there,” the boy pleaded. “I can’t help them.”

“A little bit of hope can do a lot,” Severo encouraged. “Just let them see you.”

Stiles looked towards the curtain, tears welling in his eyes as he croaked, “I can’t help them…”

Scott stepped forward, resting a hand on his shoulder as he whispered, “You can help them. You can give them hope.”

Stiles hesitated for a moment then nodded and stepped forward. He pushed aside the plastic strips and stepped into the District hospital.

Hundreds of people were crowded into the small space, covered in bloody bandages and rags. Some were missing limbs and others looked like they were barely hanging onto life. The few IVs they had were hanging from long rods along the low-hanging ceiling, held in place by strands of rusty wire.

He drew in shallow breaths as he slowly made his way through the rows and aisles.

Children were huddled together on make-shift beds, trembling as they clung to one another.

A young girl, no older than fifteen, was left to tend to her own wounds. Her left arm had been amputated and her waist was covered with a thick layer of bandages, swirls of brown and red seeping through the fabric. Her pale eyes were unfocused and her breathing was shallow as she swayed slightly.

Stiles stopped. He knelt before the girl, setting his bow down on the rough concrete floor before turning to help her. He coiled the bandages around the stump of her arm before fastening it in place.

She looked up at him, her pale green eyes glittering with gratitude as she offered him a weak smile.

He reached back into his belt and pulled out the flask of water, unscrewing the cap and holding it to her lips.

She took a few mouthfuls of the water before gently pushing it away and whispering, “Thank you.”

Stiles froze.

 _How can she thank me?_ he thought, his stomach churning with guilt. _I caused this. How can she thank me after all of this?_

Stiles slowly sat back, offering the flask to the woman next to them. She took it with tears of relief as she held it up to her baby’s parched lips.

Stiles rose to his feet, turning around in circles as he looked at the rest of the wounded.

“Stiles?” a young boy said, surprised, his voice silencing the building. “Stiles Stilinski? What are you doing here?”

“I came to see you,” Stiles replied, his voice weak as he looked down at the boy.

“Are you here to fight, Stiles?” a teenager asked from across the room. “Are you here to fight with us?”

Stiles swallowed hard and nodded. “Yes. I am… I will.”

One by one they raised their hands to their lips, pressing three fingers to their lips before raising their arms into the air.

The funeral salute of District Twelve.


	9. Chapter 9

Stiles was silent as he made his way through the streets of District Nine.

“Are you okay?” Corey asked him.

“I don’t understand,” Stiles muttered, keeping his eyes on his feet. “This is your home, they’re family, why aren’t they happy to see you?”

“Because no-one ever wanted me here,” Corey replied.

Stiles opened his mouth to say something when Araya caught up with the group, setting her radio back on her belt as she announced, “We’ve got a problem. Incoming bombers from the north.”

“There’s an old bunker in there,” Corey announced, pointing at a nearby building.

The group picked up their heels, running towards the large warehouse by the grain mill. Once under shelter, they sprinted to the far end of the warehouse where Corey busied himself pulling open the hatch to the underground storage hold that doubled as a bunker.

Stiles felt his thigh ache, his leg dragging behind him and his paced run weakening into a limping hobble as he gritted his teeth and forced himself to keep moving.

The dull hum of engines flew overhead followed by a barrage of gunfire.

Stiles spun around, his eyes wide as he looked back at the door of the building.

“Stiles,” Scott warned. “Don’t.”

Stiles ignored him. He sprinted back towards the entrance.

“Stiles!” Scott howled, chasing after the boy with Araya on their heels.

Stiles stopped before the large open doorway, looking out across the District.

The hover crafts, decorated by the Capitol emblem, flew overhead, dropping bombs across the District.

“Stilinski! Get away from that wall!” Araya ordered.

A bomb stuck the building across the open space, the shockwave hurling Stiles back.

He hit the ground with a heavy thud, gasping for air and moaning in pain. He blinked rapidly to clear the haze that misted his vision.

A loud groan filled his ears, echoing as it bounced off the walls of the mill.

He turned and looked up at the roof of the shed.

The metal began to buckle and break as the large silo outside began to fall, the pillar toppling and bricks crumbling.

“Stiles!” Scott shouted, tackling his friend to the ground. He grabbed his friend’s shoulders and pulled him aside, rolling across the solid concrete floor.

Scott arched his body over Stiles’, shielding him as a thundering boom shook the ground.

Stiles blinked his eyes open, weakly. His chest heaved with shallow breaths as he coughed up lungfuls of dust that stirred from the debris around them.

“Scott,” he called, worried.

The older boy rose to his knees, crouching before Stiles and cupping his face so that Stiles was forced to look him in the eye. His lips moved but what he said was muted.

Stiles blinked heavily, looking up at the boy’s sparkling umber eyes.

Stiles tried to speak but his voice failed him.

A tidal wave of sound crashed over him, his head pounding as he finally heard Scott’s voice among the rumbling engines and thundering chaos of toppling buildings.

“Stiles, we have to run,” Scott said firmly. “Get up and run.”

Stiles nodded, scurrying to his feet and following Scott. The two of them ran up a flight of stairs and out onto a balcony.

Stiles spotted the dark shapes of the planes as the aircraft banked and turned around.

“They’re flying towards the hospital,” Stiles muttered. “They’re circling around. Come on.”

Scott and Stiles hurried to a higher point, climbing onto the rooftops while Corey and the others followed.

Stiles looked across the District.

There was a high-pitched whistle as the planes dropped the bombs.

Behind the buildings, a large pillar of smoke and fire rose into the air, the pained screams of the wounded silenced.

“No!” Stiles screamed.

The planes banked and came about. Their guns were trained on the figures on the roof.

In one swift movement, Scott and Stiles each drew an explosive arrow from their quivers, notched them, aimed and fired.

The two jets were consumed by fire, crashing into each other and erupting into a fireball. The crashed into the ruins of the nearby buildings, the shockwave knocking them about as a thundering boom split the thick air that hung over the District.

Stiles scrambled downstairs and ran out onto the streets.

Scott called after him, racing to catch up to Stiles and grabbing his friend to hold him back from the wall of fire that engulfed the District Hospital.

“Get them out!” Stiles cried. “Someone help them.”

“Stiles,” Corey rasped.

Stiles slowly turned to look at the younger victor.

His face was full of pain and tears fell down his cheeks, glistening in the glow of the raging flames as he weakly muttered, “They’re dead.”

Stiles’ body shuddered with sobs, his breathing thin and his lungs burning for air as Scott slowly set him down on his own feet.

Severo stepped forward and said, “Stiles, look at the camera and tell everyone what you’re seeing. Say what you need to say.”

Stiles turned to face the camera, his eyes full of hot tears and his face smeared with dust and soot as he boldly said, “I want the rebels to know that I am alive. I am District Nine where the Capitol just bombed a hospital full of unarmed men, women and children. There will be no survivors. And if you think for one second that the Capitol will treat you fairly then you are mistaken. We know what they are and what they do.” Stiles pointed towards the fire behind him and shouted, enraged, “This is what they do! This is why we must fight back!”

He turned and looked at the second camera, the one closer to him and growled, “I have a message for President Deucalion. You can torture us and bomb us and burn our Districts to the ground, but do you see that?” He pointed over his shoulder at the nearby flag, the fabric bearing the Capitol emblem flapping in the wind like someone desperately trying to shake the fire off their body, but to no avail; the fire dragged its way up the fabric and burnt away the emblem. “The fire is catching, and if we burn you burn with us!”

Stiles slowly turned away, his legs trembling slightly as he stood before the District hospital. A roaring orange glow consumed the building. Tendril-like flames flickered as they devoured the wooden planks and melting and bowing the metal sheets. The heat of the blaze radiated against his skin, the glow making the beads of sweat glisten on his skin and his tears burn as they welled in his eyes.

His heart sank into his stomach. He blinked heavily, the tears falling past his thick lashes and streaking Stiles’ cheeks as he watched on helplessly as the fire destroyed everything.

His legs trembled, falling beneath him as he collapsed to his knees.

He felt cold, watching the dancing flames devour and destroy everything.

It was gone, everything was gone. They were all dead.


	10. Chapter 10

Severo and his team had compiled a video from the clips they had filmed in District Nine. It was a cinematic masterpiece, but sickened Stiles to watch it. Rafe had insisted on showing it to the whole of District Thirteen before broadcasting across Beacon Hills for all of the Districts to see.

“Peter’s faith in you wasn’t misplaced,” Rafe told him, glancing from Stiles to the podium above the gathered assembly where Rafe was to speak from.

“Thank you,” Stiles muttered although he didn’t mean it.

“Come stand with me before the District,” Rafael insisted.

Stiles shook his head. “No.”

“Stiles,” Rafael started, but Stiles cut him off.

“I don’t want to,” the boy interrupted, his voice firm as he took another step backwards.

“Stiles, you’re a hero,” Rafe insisted.

“No, I’m not,” Stiles growled, stepping further back into the shadows. “A hero would have saved those people. A hero would have stopped this before yet another District was destroyed. This isn’t a game, Rafael. I’m not a soldier. I’m not a hero. I’m just a kid.”

Stiles turned and made his way down the small flight of stairs, burying his hands in the pockets of his jumpsuit and bowing his head as he made his way through the empty halls and back towards his quarters.

He dug through the wardrobe and pulled out Derek’s favourite leather jacket, the leather soft and familiar in his trembling hands; a comforting sensation. He brought it to his face and inhaled the rich scent the lingered in the smooth leather. His hands quivered as he pulled it on. He sat down on his bunk, hugging himself. The familiar warmth of the jacket blanketed him as he closed his eyes and tried to convince himself it was Derek holding him.

From down the hall and through the speakers, he could hear Rafael’s speech.

“Today, we spark a new fire, one that will burn in the heart of the rebellion for years to come,” Rafael announced. “Today, we take a step towards victory; we have shown that the Capitol is full of monsters and heartless murderers who show no hesitation in killing innocent people. Today we have shown that we will not stand for it, that we are alive and fighting back.”

His speech died down to a moment of quiet before he added, “There is no fight without sacrifice. And if we are to honour those we have lost we must fight for them. With Stiles Stilinski, the spark of the rebellion, on our side, we are sure to win.  Our time has arrived; our time is now.”

The sound of thundering applause shook Stiles, dying away as the people of District Thirteen began to chant.

The door to his room opened.

Stiles glanced up, meeting Lydia’s soft gaze as she crossed the room and sat down next to him.

She took his hand in her own, curling her slender fingers around his hand and giving it a gentle, reassuring squeeze.

He glanced up at her, watching how the depths of her jade eyes sparkled with sympathy.

The chanting continued, devolving into something that sounded like a rhythmic barbaric grunting, prompting Stiles to sarcastically say, “There’s nothing like a fight song at a funeral.”

 

“I’ve got good news,” Scott announced as he stepped into their room. “Rafael agreed to let us hunt above ground.”

“What about Isaac?” Stiles asked.

“He wants to stay with mum,” Scott announced, already reaching into the cupboard to collect his jacket and satchel. He passed Stiles the other bag and they made their up to the higher levels of the bunkers.

Scott was given a pager and a radio in case anything were to happen and they were allowed to collect their weapons before stepping up into the hangar bay. The two of them made their way down a narrow hallway and out into a vine-covered cavern where large boulders sheltered the small hollow and concealed a large metal door.

The forest was full of rich greens and tones of brown, gold and red were darkened by the shadows that dwelled beneath the foliage. It was familiar, comfortable. They each took turns leading the way through the dense undergrowth, cautiously stepping among the fallen leaves and jagged roots.

They set snares and foraged for herbs and plants that Melissa could use.

Ahead, among the thick pine trees and by the scintillating water of the trickling stream, stood a gorgeous elk. Its pelt was a translucent white, gleaming as its fur caught the filtered beams of light that dwelled among the depths of the forest.

Stiles notched his bow and aimed it at the elk.

The creature lifted its head, turning to look at the boys with glittering black eyes. Slowly, it turned its head away and returned to drinking.

Stiles lowered his bow, letting the string fall slack as he stared at the elk and muttered, “He’s not even afraid of us.”

“He has no reason to be,” Scott replied, keeping his voice quiet. “He’s never been hunted before.”

“Lucky him,” Stiles muttered as he rose to his feet and continued on.

When they returned, they found three rabbits in their snares and had filled their bags with herbs and berries.

They made their way to the District fence, crawling through the hole in the chain-link wire. Beyond the wire fence was a mess of fallen buildings: splintered wood, rubble and boulders that were piled where once-proud-standing guard towers, pillars, fences and houses had been. The ground had been upturned and blown away into craters. The grass had begun to regrow: lush and green as it covered the piles of dirt and ash. Vines, weeds, flowers and shrubs had grown over the ruins.

They stopped by what had once been a large stone building, sitting down under the archway that overlooked the river. They watched how the light bounced off the rippling water of the creek.

“Remember how we used to talk about running away?” Stiles asked, picking up a small rock and tossing it into the water. “Packing up everything we owned and running into the forest to get as far away from the District as we could?”

“Yeah,” Scott replied, picking up a rock and doing the same. “Why do you ask?”

“I wish he had,” Stiles replied.

“We wouldn’t have made it,” Scott dismissed.

“We could have,” Stiles argued. “And then none of this would have ever happened.”

“If none of this had happened, you wouldn’t have met Derek,” Scott pointed out.

“I would have saved him a lot of pain and the Capitol wouldn’t be torturing him,” Stiles countered. He bowed his head, falling silent for a moment before adding, “And Allison would still be alive.”

Scott opened his mouth to say something when the pager on his belt beeped. He picked it up and read the message. He sighed heavily as he clipped it back onto his belt and said, “They want us back.”

Stiles nodded and rose to his feet. He followed Scott back towards the concealed door, stopping one last time to glance over his shoulder at the scintillating stream.

The necklace felt heavy as it hung from his neck, the pendant tapping against his collarbone.

Stiles let out a heavy breath and turned away.


	11. Chapter 11

They made their way down into the dining hall to drop off the spoils of their hunt, but the entire level was abandoned.

The televisions were turned on, broadcasting another video from the Capitol.

Danny’s face appeared on screen as he smiled, welcomed everyone and began, “We’re joined by our favourite tribute, Derek Hale. Now, Derek, what do you have to say about Stiles’ recent actions, about the boy who was once adored by the Capitol?”

Derek didn’t reply, his attention was drawn to the small, white rose in his hands as he stared at the glittering petals.

“I understand, Derek, that this must be particularly painful for you,” Danny said sympathetically.

Derek slowly turned the rose in his fingers and muttered, “I wish I could give this to you, Stiles.”

Stiles felt his heat lurch in his chest, aching painfully at the sight of Derek’s face. He was sickly pale, his high cheekbones ghastly and protruding and his cheeks sunken and hollow. The stiff collar of his shirt didn’t do much to hide the decay of his muscles and the makeup caked onto his face couldn’t hide the dark circles beneath his eyes nor the pain in his eyes. His glittering aventurine irises had dulled, losing their sparkling colour.

“He’s changed so much,” Scott whispered.

Stiles felt tears well in his eyes as he gasped, “What are they doing to him?”

Danny continued, “A sweet gesture for a boy who has inspired such violence. You must love him very much, Derek, because I don’t think I could. Unless, of course, you think he’s being forced into saying things he doesn’t understand.”

Derek looked up at Danny, a flicker of anger passing across his face as he said, “Yeah, that’s exactly what I think. They’re using him to whip up the rebels and I doubt he knows what’s happening. They’re using him and he doesn’t know what’s at stake.”

Danny gave Derek a moment to calm down before he asked, “I doubt the rebels would ever let him see this, but if this can somehow get through to him, what would you say to him, to Stiles Stilinski… to the once sweet Stiles Stilinski?”

Tears brewed in the older boy’s eyes as he rasped, “I would tell him to think for himself…” He turned and looked down the camera, right at Stiles. “Don’t be a fool, Stiles. I know you never wanted the rebellion, you never wanted anyone to get hurt, and the things you did in the Games were never intended to start all of this. The rebels have made you into something you’re not, something that can destroy all of us. So, if you have any power or any say in what they do or how they use you… please… please urge them to stop this war before it’s too late. And ask yourself, can you trust the people you’re working with?”

A small tear rolled down Derek’s cheek, glistening as it caressed his pale skin.

“Do you know what they really want?” Derek asked.

Danny thanked Derek and the interview ended.

“Stiles,” Scott whispered, reaching forward and resting his hand on his friend’s shoulder.

“He has a point,” Stiles muttered. “We don’t know what Rafe wants. And after everything he did, I don’t know if I can trust him.”

“We can’t,” Scott admitted. “But we also can’t let this go on. You’re not fighting for Rafe, you’re fighting for all of the innocent people that the Capitol has harmed.”

“Like Derek?” Stiles asked. “You saw that, right? You’ve seen what he looks like. They’re hurting him. Because of me.”

“Stiles, he’s holding on,” Scott said calmly. “He’s buying us enough time to save him.”

“But we’re not!” Stiles argued, tears coursing his face. “That’s the man who saved me in the Games, that’s the man who defended you at the whipping post, that’s the man who jumped into collapsed mines to pull out the injured and the survivors, that’s the man who has done nothing but lay his life on the line time and time again to save us and now Rafe is sitting up in his office, all high and mighty, and doing nothing to save him.”

“Rafe still sees him as an enemy,” Scott pointed out. “Derek hasn’t said anything that goes against the Capitol. In Rafael’s eyes, he has done nothing but sit there and defend the people who destroyed his home and murdered innocent families.”

“He doesn’t know!” Stiles shouted. His voice died away to a quiet mumbled as he realised, “He doesn’t know… How could he? Nobody has seen what the Capitol did to Twelve.”

“So what do we do?” Scott asked.

“We go back to Twelve,” Stiles announced. “We show them what the Capitol did.”

“Are you sure you’re up for that?” Scott said, his voice full of fear and worry.

“I have to… I have to show them.”


	12. Chapter 12

The plane set them down in front of the rubble that once was the Justice Building of District Twelve.

They knelt down on the ground, shielding their faces with their arms as the ship rose into the air, stirring up clouds of dust and ash.

After a moment, the wind died down and the quiet hum of the engine faded as the ship rose into the air and flew away.

Stiles lowered his arms and stood upright.

His heart sank into his gut as his eyes, once again, fell upon the ruins and destruction of District Twelve, the mess of smoking bricks and wood, crumbled ruins of familiar buildings and the twisted bodies and smouldering corpses, bones left exposed to the elements and other buried beneath rubble or melted together.

The camera crew filmed small clips of the District, focusing on toppled buildings and disfigured bodies.

Stiles swallowed hard against the bile that rose into his throat.

“Stiles,” Severo called. “Why don’t we start with a shot of you in front of the Justice Building?”

Stiles shook his head and admitted, “I don’t know what to say.”

“Nine hundred and fifteen,” Scott muttered.

All eyes turned on him as he crouched down and picked up the charred wood of a toy train that had belonged to one of the children in the District.

“Nine hundred and fifteen people made it to the fence, most injured and all terrified.” He set the toy down and looked up, slowly walking through the District with Stiles and the camera crew following. “Nine hundred and fifteen people out of ten thousand… I should have grabbed people, should have dragged them from their houses, but they were all too scared... I could have carried more kids.”

“Scott,” Stiles said quietly. “You did everything you could. You saved a lot of lives. Without you, there would be no District Twelve, not even a memory of it.”

Scott shook his head. “It wasn’t me. Your dad and Chris woke us up because they heard the peacekeepers leaving the District. They knew something was wrong and they got Isaac, mum and I to safety before they started to evacuate the District. I ran back to help, but I’m not the one who saved those people.”

Scott stopped before the District fence, the toes of his boots touching the upturned grass and earth of what used to be the meadow.

“And the true hero of it all was Aiden,” Scott announced. “If it wasn’t for him, none of us would have made it. He sacrificed himself and stopped the Capitol’s peacekeepers from coming after us. He gave us the time we needed to escape.”

Stiles followed Scott’s gaze, his eyes falling on the boy’s body. His gut lurched at the sight of Aiden’s arms woven through the wire of the fence, his joints stiffened and his body locked in place to shield the hole that led into the forest. His head was sagged forward and his chest was riddled with bullet holes, his clothes stained with blood and ash.

“John Stilinski, Chris Argent and Aiden are the heroes of this tragedy,” Scott reiterated. “They saved us, all nine hundred and fifteen of us.”

Scott sniffed back his tears and Stiles rested a hand on his shoulder.

Stiles gently pulled the boy aside, leading him away from the destruction and back across the District towards the Victor’s Village.

“I promised Isaac I’d bring him back his book the next time I was here,” Stiles explained as he made his way through the house. He stepped into the small alcove that was their reading room and stepped over to the small table where Isaac often left the book. He picked up the tattered copy of _The Little Prince_ from the small table beside the couch and admired it for a moment.

The pages of the book had been thumbed smooth by how many times Isaac and Derek had read it. The dark blue canvas cover was fraying and some of the pages were barely hanging onto the binding. It was untouched by dust and just as damaged as it was before, just how Isaac liked it.

“Isaac finally read it to Laura,” Scott muttered weakly, smiling at the memory. “She loved it.”

Stiles froze.

His heart skipped a beat as a cold chill flooded his body, his mouth dry and his chest aching. His hands trembled as he passed the book to Scott and stumbled back through the doorway.

As soon as he was in the open air and his feet struck the dusty earth, he took off running.

He sprinted down the streets, weaving through the rubble of wood and rock and the smoky piles of ash.

His legs burnt with pain and the old scar in his thigh was throbbing under the strain.

 _Keep running_ , he told himself. _Keep going_.

Stiles picked up his feet and ran faster. His heavy boots thumped against the ground with a thundering beat.

His boots sank into the muddy sludge that filled the streets, dragging at his feet and making him stumble and slow slightly.

The fires had died off days ago but the smell of smoke and ash was suffocating, filling his lungs as he ran and making him cough and gasp breathlessly. His nose brunt with the bitter scent of burnt flesh, ash, and the rich scent of charred pine.

He skidded to a halt before the shelter, stirring up a cloud of dirt and mud in his wake. He raced inside and through to the back rooms.

“Coach?” he called, his voice hoarse and his eyes full of tears. “Coach!”

He stumbled into Allison’s old bedroom, stopping by the door.

His breath hitched in his throat, air escaping him and leaving his lungs burning for relief as his eyes fell on the sigh of a man’s body arched over the cot in the corner. By the foot of the cot, under one arm, was a young boy: Coach’s son. His body wasn’t burnt from the fires or mutilated by the bombs, but his skin was pale and his cheeks hollow as he began to decompose. Flies buzzed around his face, flying in and out of his open mouth.

Above him, a man’s body was arched over the cot, shielding the two children with his body.

“Coach?” Stiles rasped, barely able to manage a whisper.

Stiles could hear footsteps and voices behind him, but no-one dared to come near him.

“Coach?” Stiles called again, stepping into the room.

He watched the man’s back, praying that he would see it rise and fall with the man’s breaths but there was nothing; he was deathly still.

Stiles stepped over to the cot and gently lifted the man away, setting him down on one of the mattresses on the floor before laying his son with him.

He swallowed hard and turned to look at the cot.

“Laura,” he called softly, as if trying to wake her from a nap.

She didn’t make a sound.

Stiles rose to his feet and peered over the edge of the cot.

There she was, his baby girl, wrapped in the blanket that Peter had gifted to her and clutching her favourite patchwork teddy bear that Isaac had given her. Her rosy pink cheeks had faded and were streaked with tears that cleared away the dirt and grime that clung to her skin.

 _She’s asleep_ , Stiles thought, reaching into the cot to lift her into his arms. _She cried herself to sleep_.

“Come on, Laura,” he cooed. “Wake up.”

She didn’t stir.

“Come on, baby girl, it’s time to wake up,” Stiles sobbed.

He bushed the back of his finger against her cheek to clear away the tears, flinching at how cold she was.

Stiles’ heart pounded against his ribs as he lowered his ear to her chest.

Nothing.

She wasn’t breathing.

She wasn’t sleeping.

She was dead.

Stiles let out a broken cry, clutching her frail body to his chest as he arched over her.

Tears fell from his eyes, streaming down his cheeks and falling to the ground where they shattered like glass across the dusty floorboards. He screamed and wailed, not caring that there were cameras and people watching on.

He buried Laura’s face in his shirt and cried for what felt like hours. His chest ached and his eyes were dry and bloodshot; he had no more tears to cry. A mess of tears and snot trailed down his face as he slowly rose to his feet and set Laura down in her crib like he would for a nap. He wiped his face with his sleeve, his body trembling weakly with fatigue.

He was scarily calm and silent as he made his way back out into the main part of the house and picked up a shovel, heading over to the far end of the District where they had made a small graveyard for all those who had died of malnutrition, mine collapses, illnesses and age. He made his way over to the large gardenia tree that had grown over his mother’s grave and began to dig a hole by the roots.

After a minute, he noticed a second shovel strike the dirt. He glanced up and saw Scott by his side, grip tightened around the handle of the shovel as he helped his friend dig.

Scott returned his gaze, his eyes full of pain, sorrow and guilt.

They didn’t need words; Stiles knew what he was thinking: nine hundred and fifteen people and he had left Laura behind. He knew Scott thought he had failed him, that he had forgotten the one thing that mattered the most to Stiles, and Stiles wished he had the words to tell Scott he was wrong, that he didn’t blame him for anything. He reached across and gently patted Scott’s shoulder.

The older boy bit his lip, blinking back heavy tears and he nodded.

Araya messaged the jet pilots, telling them they needed more time before looking through the buildings and collecting a bunch of shovels. The camera crew set down their equipment and picked up shovels, joining Scott and Stiles.

After a few hours, they had managed to dig four holes.

They started with Aiden, carefully dislodging his arms from the wire fence and carrying him over to the grave. They laid him down and filled it in, collecting the few flowers that had burst through the overturned soil of the meadow and laying them atop of the upturned earth of Aiden’s grave.

Next was Coach and his son, laid in graves side by side and adorned with flowers.

Finally, it was Laura’s turn.

Stiles picked her up out of the cot and carried her over to the graveyard. He bundled her up in the blanket – the one Peter had given her, her favourite – and laid her down in the grave, the old, patchwork teddy bear still clutched to her chest.

His hands trembled as he looked down at her, gently brushing his fingers across her cheeks.

He shook his head.

“I can’t do it,” Stiles muttered, another wave of heavy tears falling from his eyes as he looked up at Scott. His lips trembled as he repeated, “I can’t do it.”

Scott gently patted his shoulder, encouraging the boy to step back. He leant forward and lifted the blanket over the infant’s face. He began to slowly fill in the grave, laying the dirt around her body carefully before smoothing it out to obscure her body.

Once finished, he stood back and let Stiles lay the flowers over her grave with quivering hands.

They were silent for a moment before Scott began to hum a soft melody, his voice soft and quiet as he sang,

 

_Are you, are you,_

_Coming to the tree?_

_They strung up a man, they say who murdered three._

_Strange things did happen here,_

_No stranger would it be,_

_If we met at midnight in the hanging tree._

 

Stiles looked at him.

Scott hadn’t sung that song since his father’s funeral years ago, nor had he sung out loud since then, but the words seemed to flow from his lips; quiet but natural.

He had almost forgot how smooth his friend’s voice was, how soothing it was to hear him sing.

Stiles swallowed hard, his mouth dry and his throat aching as he joined in,

 

_Are you, are you,_

_Coming to the tree?_

_Where the dead man called out for his love to flee,_

_Strange things did happen here,_

_No stranger would it be,_

_If we met at midnight in the hanging tree._

 

His vision was streaked by tears that he desperately tried to blink away. He sniffed back his broken sobs, his voice hoarse as he sang.

Scott reached across, taking Stiles’ hand in his own and giving it a gentle, reassuring squeeze.

Their voices melded together in a harmony as they sang the soft melody,

 

_Are you, are you,_

_Coming to the tree?_

_Where I told you to run so we’d both be free._

_Strange things did happen here,_

_No stranger would it be,_

_If we met at midnight in the hanging tree._

 

Stiles blinked heavily, letting the warm tears fall past his dark lashes and caress his cheeks, glistening as he remembered all the times he had sun to Laura, all the times he had held her close and wiped the tears off her rosy pink cheeks.

He remembered how her bright jade eyes would sparkle every time she saw him or Derek, or how she would always reach up for them with her chubby little hands. He remembered how her hands curls around his fingers or played with Derek’s whiskers. He remembered how she would curiously play with Derek’s lips and he would gently nom on her fingers, making her smile toothlessly and giggle.

He remembered the promise he and her mother had made her: that she would have someone to love her, someone to care for her, to protect her and fight for her.

He should have been there for her.

He should have fought for her.

But he wasn’t and he didn’t.

But Coach had; he had cared for and defended a child that wasn’t his. He had risked his life to shield her and protect her.

In the final few minutes of her life, he had been her family.

Stiles bowed his head and continued to sing,

 

_Are you, are you,_

_Coming to the tree?_

_Wear a necklace of rope side by side with me,_

_Strange things did happen here,_

_No stranger would it be,_

_If we met at midnight in the hanging tree._

 

His voice was slow, strained, as he sang the final lines to the song,

 

_Are you, are you,_

_Coming to the tree?_

 

Stiles turned around, looking at the people behind him.

A few members of the camera crew had stepped back to film the funeral, the others stood still, watching on with broken hearts.

One by one they raised their hands to their lips, pressing three fingers to their lips before raising their arms into the air.

The funeral salute of District Twelve.

It meant thank you.

It meant admiration.

It meant goodbye to someone you love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry.


	13. Chapter 13

When they returned to Thirteen, Stiles was administered to the infirmary for shock and trauma; he was staring blankly into oblivion and not responding to anyone. Scott had held him upright, the younger boy stumbling over his own feet as his friend carried him to the infirmary.

As soon as they had stepped through the door, Melissa had run to their sides, taking Stiles from Scott and laying him down on one of the crisp, white hospital beds. She sat beside him and talked softly to him.

Isaac came to visit and Stiles gave him his book, watching his face light up as his finger trailed across the cover and he read the title of the well-loved story.

Stiles shuffled over on the bed and patted the mattress beside him. Isaac climbed up onto the bed and sat with him.

“Read to me,” Stiles pleaded, his voice quiet and strained.

Isaac nodded and opened the ratty cover. He smoothed out the pages and moved his finger back and forth across the page as he began to read.

Stiles let the boy’s soft voice lull him as his mind drifted.

Down the hallway, he could hear the propaganda videos playing over and over. It was sickening: the sound of Scott’s soft voice as he and Stiles sung, overlayed with the horrific images of death and destruction in District Twelve: the crumbled ruins of the Justice Building, the masses of disfigured bodies, the rubble and ruins of smoking buildings, Aiden’s body strung up to the fence, and the graves in which they had laid the corpses of their friends and family.

He couldn’t get the image out of his head: the still body of the little girl who was one month shy of her first birthday.

Rafael would occasionally drop by to boast about the reports that had come in that the Districts were enraged and rebelling. Eight had taken desperate measures and killed the peacekeepers guarding their District while District Five had stormed the large dam in the centre of their District and blown it up, leaving all of Beacon Hills without power – including the Capitol.

Stiles didn’t want to hear any of it.

Melissa came to his rescue; shooing Rafe out of the infirmary and scolding him, or glaring at him if he dared to come near the door of the medical bay.

“Hey,” Scott whispered as he entered the room, smiling slightly at the sight of Isaac curled up and fast asleep in Stiles’ arms. “Are you feeling up for a meeting?”

Stiles shrugged slightly. “I guess.”

He gently rolled Isaac onto the mattress and rose to his feet. He followed Scott through the crowds of people who turned to stare at him as he passed and up to the Control Room.

As he stepped inside, he noticed Derek’s face on the large screen, another Capitol broadcast.

“Tonight we have been getting reports of Districts in uproar, granaries on fire and the destruction of power plants,” Derek announced. “I am begging for restraint, for decency.”

Stiles was taken aback by how frail and hollow the older boy looked.

“Derek,” he whimpered. “What have they done to you?”

Rafe spoke up, “We interrupt your regularly scheduled horse manure to bring you… this.”

He pressed a button, playing the propaganda clip. It interrupted the Capitol broadcast, breaking up the image as the video of the twisted bodies and toppled buildings began to play.

It started with Scott’s voice, the low, soft melody playing over the video.

A hint of recognition flashed over Derek’s face as he muttered, “Scott?” He turned his bright eyes down the camera and asked, “Scott, are you there?”

Their transmission was interrupted, dropping out as the static cleared and Danny brought Derek’s attention back to the interview as he prompted, “Derek, you were telling us about the destructive actions of the Districts.”

Derek nodded, taking a second to compose himself before he continued, “The attack on the dam was a callous and inhuman act, of destruction.”

The clip came up again, interrupting the broadcast.

This time, both Stiles and Scott’s voices could be heard.

Derek froze, watching the screen. A single tear fell from his eyes, unnoticed as it rolled down his cheek.

He looked down the camera, his voice weak as he forced himself to continue, “Think about it… how will this end? Who will be left? No-one can survive this. No-one is safe now: not here in the Capitol or in any of the Districts.”

The propaganda interrupted again, showing a clip of Stiles crying as he held onto Laura’s still body and the small funeral they put together for her.

Derek’s eyes brightened, recognition filling his expression.

He was his old self again as he gasped, “Laura?”

His shock quickly turned to rage as he lashed out at the people behind the camera.

“You killed my daughter! You bastards! You killed my daughter!”

“Cut it,” Deucalion ordered from off screen, but the broadcast continued to roll, the sound of Derek’s screams tearing through Stiles and making his heart ache.

“Laura!” Derek wailed. “Stiles!”

His cried were cut short as he was knocked about by peacekeepers.

The cameras were knocked over in the chaos, quickly followed by a heavy thump as Derek hit the ground, blood spilling across the tiles.

The broadcast was cut short.

Stiles’ heart sank into his stomach, his body shuddering as heavy tears fell from his eyes.

His lips trembled, moving around the soft whimper: the name that weakly fell from his lips. “Derek.”


	14. Chapter 14

Stiles stood still for a moment, staring at the blank screen.

His chest rose and fell with hollow breaths as he turned to look at Rafael.

His blood boiled with rage.

“You bastard!” Stiles howled, leaping across the small room and lunging at Rafe.

He grabbed the man by the front of his jacket and hurled him back against the wall.

Rafe hit the concrete with a heavy thud and a pained grunt, but he had no time to recover because Stiles quickly drew his hunting knife and held it to the skin of the man’s exposed throat.

The surrounding guards flinched but didn’t step forward or try to stop Stiles in fear of angering him further.

“You used my daughter’s death for your own political gain,” Stiles seethed. “You’re sick!”

“Stiles,” Rafael started slowly.

Stiles pushed the knife further against his throat, the sharp edge of the blade digging into his flesh slightly.

“First you abandon Scott and Melissa, then you make my dad think he left you to die in the mines – and God knows he should have. Then you leave two good men at the mercy of the Capitol, to be tortured and twisted, and now you’ve given the Capitol reason to kill the only person I’ve ever loved, the person that you’re meant to be _saving_! How many more lives are you going to screw up, Rafe? How many?!”

The man didn’t reply.

Stiles pushed his hand closer, the gleaming blade of the knife breaking the man’s skin and drawing blood. A ruby-red drop of blood streamed across the blade.

Stiles’ glare grew even more fierce as he snarled, “Or should I save everyone the pain and end you here and now?”

There was a soft touch as a gentle, calloused hand fell on his wrist.

Stiles turned, his eyes wide and full of rage.

Scott levelled his gaze with his friend.

A soft sigh fell from Stiles’ lips, his shoulders falling as he weakened his hold on Rafael and stepped back.

Regardless of everything, he was still Scott’s father and killing him wasn’t going to help his case or get Derek back any sooner.

Scott held out his hand and Stiles dropped the hunting knife into his friend’s outstretched hand.

His hands trembled and is body quivered with rage as he turned to leave.

He took two steps before Rafe spoke, “By the way, you don’t need to thank me for the video; you’re welcome.”

Stiles spun around, clenching his fist and slamming it into the man’s jaw.

Rafe fell to the ground.

Scott quickly grabbed Stiles before he could do any more damage, pinning the boy’s slender to his side and wrestling his violently thrashing limbs. He dragged him towards the door while Stiles – livid with rage – spewed obscenities and threats that he would gladly make true.

Stiles broke free of Scott’s hold, shoving him aside and charging at Rafe again.

Melissa stepped in his way.

Hot tears glistened across Stiles’ cheeks as he collapsed weakly in Melissa’s arms, sobbing violently into the fabric of her medical scrubs.

She coiled her arms around him, whispering softly and calming him.

“Melissa,” John called, keeping his voice low and soft. “Get him out of here.”

The woman nodded, cradling Stiles to her chest as she guided the boy back out through the door to the Control Room and left everyone else in a stunned silence.

‘I volunteer,’ the Mute signed.

“For what?” Scott asked, moving his hands to sign the words he spoke.

‘I volunteer to go to the Capitol and get Derek and Mason back.’

Scott repeated the man’s words to the rest of the room.

“Look,” Rafe started, rising to his feet and staring at the intimidating victor. “You can’t just-“

“Me too,” Scott interrupted, glaring at Rafael. “I’m going too, regardless of whether you help us or not.”

“Scott,” Peter spoke up from the corner of the room. “You don’t know your way around the Tribute Centre.”

“But you do,” Scott pointed out.

‘And so do I,’ the Mute added.

“Derek is your nephew,” Scott growled, turning his fierce glare on Peter. “Are you going to do something or just abandon him again?”

“I didn’t realise I had to volunteer,” Peter replied, his voice calm and smooth. “I thought my intentions were perfectly clear and understood. It may have taken me a while but I’ve come to realise that leaving Derek in Two was the worst mistake I ever made and I am sick and tired of losing the people I care about. Derek and Stiles are on the top of that list, so – with or without your help – I’m getting my nephew back.”

“You can’t just walk into the Capitol and ask for Derek and Mason,” Rafe pointed out. “So mind telling me what your plan is?”

“I’m good with a bow,” Scott interjected. “And Peter and the Mute are pretty skilled with axes.”

“I can use any weapon,” Chris added. “Blades, guns, bows, you name it.”

All eyes turned to Chris, shocked that the quiet man had spoken up.

“Those bastards took my daughter from me,” Chris growled. “I’m not letting them take Derek and Stiles from us too.”

“I want to help too,” John added.

“No,” Scott said softly. “We need you here. If something happens to us we need to know there is someone who will take care of Stiles, Isaac and mum. Promise me you will.”

John sighed and nodded before whispering, “I will.”

“So we’re decided then?” Peter asked.

Everybody nodded.

“Good,” Peter said with a smile. “Let’s go.”

“Wait,” Rafe barked, halting them.

All four men turned to glare at him.

Rafe sighed. “You can take a carrier and four armed guards. We’ll do our best to invade their security systems and bring down their defences. I don’t know how long we can keep them down but it should buy you just enough time to get in, get the captured tributes, and get out. But if you don’t get them in time and you’re still in the Capitol when their defence systems go back up, you can consider yourselves stranded and alone because we will not be coming back for you.”

The four men exchanged looks.

“There’s no hard feelings if you back out,” Peter said as if he were trying to reassure the others that fears were well-founded.

No-one moved.

“Okay then,” Rafe said passively. “Wheels go up in ten.”

They all nodded and left the room.

Scott paused in the doorway, glancing over his shoulder at Rafael.

The man met his gaze.

Scott nodded and muttered, “Thanks, dad.”


	15. Chapter 15

Stiles hung his head in his hands, burying his face as the tears continued to fall from his eyes.

Melissa had taken Isaac to another room so that Stiles could have some time to himself, time to think, time to cry.

There was a quiet knock at the door as someone entered and made their way over to the boy’s side.

The mattress wavered slightly as the newcomer sat down next to Stiles.

The boy blinked back his tears and straightened his back, looking at to the man’s weary face.

His father smiled softly and wrapped his arms around the boy’s shoulder.

“He’s going to kill Derek,” Stiles muttered, fighting back his sobs. “He’s going to kill Derek. I can’t… I can’t do this anymore… he’s not going to stop.”

John pulled the boy into his arms, holding him close in the comfort and security of his warm embrace. He felt Stiles’ shoulders shudder as he grabbed at his father’s shirt and cried like the child he was.

“It’s okay,” John whispered, lost for words. “It’s all going to be okay.”

“No, it’s not,” Stiles argued, sitting back slightly. His face was streaked with tears, his eyes bloodshot and his lips trembling. “Deucalion’s doing this because of me. He’s doing this because I’m the spark of the revolution. He has Derek and he’s not going to stop. I can’t do this. He’s punishing Derek to punish me. I can’t do this.”

“What can’t you do?” John asked calmly.

“I can’t do _this_ ,” Stiles repeated. “I can’t be the hero everyone needs. I can’t be the spark.”

John reached forward and gently cupped the back of his son’s head, levelling his gaze with the boy as he suggested, “Then how about you be Stiles?”

Stiles met his dad’s gaze, watching the deep blue depths of his eyes crash with waves of worry and love.

“You need to be yourself, first and foremost,” his father said softly.

Stiles shook his head and shrugged slightly as he muttered, “I can’t even do that. I stopped being Stiles a long time ago.”

“Why?” John asked. “Why did you stop?”

“Because I’m broken,” Stiles admitted. “Melissa was right, I can’t handle this; the Games destroyed me. I’m a broken child pretending to be something I’m not.”

“It takes you ten times longer to put yourself together than it does to fall apart,” John whispered.

“I’ve been trying to put myself back together, but every time I do, I get broken again,” Stiles replied. “Like you said, it’s like a mug that got broken: you can put the pieces together but the cracks still show. For me, it’s like every time I put it back together again, it gets knocked off the shelf and broken again.”

“I felt the same way when I lost your mother,” John confessed. “The difference is you have a chance of getting Derek back.”

Stiles bowed his head.

“I’m going to tell you something Melissa told me when your mum died, words I swear by,” John continued. “Find your own anchor, something to hold onto, something that gives you strength and keeps you human… You may be human but that does not make you weak. You were given this life because you are strong enough to live it.”

“Am I?” Stiles asked.

“You’ve done a damn good job at it so far,” his father assured him. “But that’s not why I came here. I came to be the bearer of good news.”

Stiles looked up at his dad, hopeful.

“They’re sending in a team to rescue Derek,” John announced.

“What?”

“Well, with the dam down in Five, they’ve knocked out most of the power and limited all the network channels. But’s that not all, it knocked out the security systems and defences, everything. Thirteen’s technicians have been able to hijack the signals and are broadcasting a live feed t slow the recovery and buy enough time for the rescue team to get in, save Mason and Derek and get out.”

“I’m going to help,” Stiles announced, bouncing to his feet.

“What are you going to do? Jump through a vent and storm the Capitol?” John teased. “Besides, it’s too late, the mission’s already underway. The carrier left ten minutes ago with a crew of eight armed soldiers – volunteers only. The Mute, Scott, Peter and Chris were the first to sign up.”

Stiles exhaled heavily, his shoulders dropping.

“Stiles,” his father said softly. “If anyone can bring Derek back, it’s them.”

Stiles nodded solemnly.

John rose to his feet, gently patting his son’s shoulder as he said, “They’re going to bring them home.”

 

Stiles stepped back into the Control Room, his eyes drawn to the large screen before them where Corey’s face lit up the majority of the screen – the live stream – and the other half of the screen divided into eight boxes that listed the people on the active mission, their heart rates and a live video feed from their helmets.

His eyes looked from Scott to Chris and Peter and then to the Mute. They were all calm and composed, ready for the mission ahead and determined to see it through until the end.

Stiles let out a heavy breath and looked back at Corey, the boy talking about Deucalion and divulging secrets.

“Why is he doing another propaganda clip?” Stiles asked.

“It’s more than that,” a technician explained. “The Capitol is on generator power so the system is down to a few frequencies. We are broadcasting on all of them and filling their entire system with noise: early detection warnings, motions trackers, and anti-aircraft defences are all down for the count.”

Stiles turned his attention back to Corey, listening to the boy’s words.

“You see, Deucalion has his ways of dealing with the victors that don’t… appreciate their victory. He thinks that the mindless slaughter of children is acceptable and to be the last one alive in the arena is something that you should thank him for. And if you don’t thank him for putting you in that situation where you emerged with nothing but fame, fortune and broken morality, then he finds ways to silence you. For most, he lets them stay in the Capitol where they’re stuffed full of fine wines and delicacies and then he throws them back into the slums of their Districts, desperate for another drop of alcohol… anything to drown their sorrows and forget everything they did in the arena. And others…”

Corey’s voice drifted for a second as his eyes glittered with pain.

“For the others, he offers their bodies for the pleasuring of others. What’s better than sleeping with a victor?” He chuckled slightly, but it was dry and lacking all emotion. “I was one of the latter. At first, I refused and Deucalion didn’t take kindly to that. He sent peacekeepers to Nine. They destroyed buildings and raided houses until they found the man I loved; a boy named Lucas. He dragged him from his house and sold him off to the people in the Capitol with the sickest fantasies.”

Corey swallowed hard, tears of pain and guilt welling in his eyes. His voice was a strained rasp as he forced himself to continue, “He was bound, gagged, whipped, starved, and passed from one person to the next like a sex toy until his body couldn’t endure any more... He died…”

Stiles couldn’t take his eyes away from the screen, stunned and silent as he watched Corey.

“Deucalion decided I had learnt my lesson and sent me off to do the same. Shunned by my family and my District from day one, I knew I wouldn’t be missed. And what’s the point in being paid if the Capitol supplies everything in the shadow of your victory? So, I asked to be paid in a different currency: secrets.”

“We’re approaching the Tribute Centre now,” Chris announced, distracting Stiles for a moment.

The team were armed and ready to make their way into the Tribute Centre.

Stiles turned his attention back to Corey as the boy continued, “Everyone has dirt on someone, the skeletons they keep hidden in the back of their closets. Some of them were mediocre: who’s having an affair with who and who wasn’t isn’t all they seemed to be. But one day, I got a gem; I got one of Deucalion’s dirty little secrets.”

Stiles glanced back and forth between the mission cameras and Corey.

“We all know that Deucalion’s blind,” Corey announced. “But not many people know the cause. During the Dark Days, he was experimenting with an artificial enhancement drug, a steroid that was to prolong his life so he could live on pass as all and rule as the tyrant he is. No wonder he has a God complex.”

Stiles heard Rafael chuckle.

The boy ignored him, looking to the mission team as they readied themselves to breach the lower levels of the Tribute Centre.

Corey seemed more sure of himself as he continued, “But the question of how he was blinded is that one man – a survivor of the bombings – attacked him, shoved incendiary arrows in his eyes and watched as they were burnt out of skull. The drugs saved his life, but not his eyesight. They enhance his senses enough that he doesn’t go bumping into tables and can always look at the person he’s talking to, but the experience has left him cowering in fear like a child. That’s why he tries to control the victors and the people of Beacon Hills with fear and threats, because he knows that if we stand up to him, he’s just as defenceless as he was when that man burnt out his eyes.”

Rafael and the others began to talk quietly among themselves, whispering as they passed messages back and forth.

“But the drugs reacted badly to all the toxic smoke and residue from the bombs he dropped on the Districts, namely Thirteen, and now it’s slowly killing him. Have you ever noticed that he never drinks from the same glass or that he artificially enhances the perfume of the white roses he surrounds himself with? It’s all to cover the taste of blood from the ulcers and sores in his mouth,” Corey announced.

The live feed of Corey’s announcement distorted and cut out.

The signal from the eight soldiers disappeared, their heart monitors flat-lining.

Stiles felt his heart lurch, his breath catching in his throat as fear sank in. He frantically looked around to the others, trying find answers.

“Power’s coming back online,” one technician announced. “They’re blocking us out.”

“Call back the hovercraft,” Rafe ordered.

“We can’t,” the technician said. “Communications are down. Unless we get back into their system we can’t talk to them.”

“Broadcast me,” Stiles blurted out. “If Deucalion sees me, maybe he’ll let our signal in.”

Rafe seemed pensive.

“We don’t have time,” Stiles snapped. “Broadcast me.”

A technician set a camera up, quickly plugging it into the monitors and nodding to Stiles.

“President Deucalion?” Stiles called. “President Deucalion, it’s Stiles. I need to speak with you.”

There was no response.

Stiles swallowed hard and tried again, “President Deucalion? I need to speak with you, are you there?”

The screen crackled with white noise and nothing but interference.

“President Deucalion, I need to speak with you,” Stiles said firmly.

“Mister Stilinski,” Deucalion interrupted, his face appearing on the large screen. His hollow features were twisted into a cynical smile as his cloudy grey eyes seemed to focus on Stiles as he sarcastically drolled, “What an honour.”

“I never asked for this,” Stiles rasped. “I never wanted to start a rebellion or get people hurt, I just wanted to save my brother and keep Derek alive. If you let them go, I promise I will disappear and you will never see me again.”

Deucalion shook his head, his expression becoming one that looked surprisingly like remorse as he said, “Mister Stilinski. You can’t run from this any more than you could run from the Games.”

“Please, you’ve won,” Stiles said weakly. “You’ve beaten me.”

Deucalion didn’t flinch.

“Cocky son of a bitch,” Rafe muttered under his breath. “He’s going to act like he already know that.”

Stiles ignored him.

“Release Derek and take me instead,” Stiles bargained.

His father flinched but didn’t interrupt.

“We are long past the opportunity for noble sacrifices,” Deucalion said coldly.

“Then tell me what you want from me,” Stiles begged. “I’ve always kept my promises.”

“You said you didn’t want a war and that’s just what’s happened. I told you what a fragile thing peace was and like a child you took pleasure in breaking it,” Deucalion scolded him as if her were a child. “Mister Stilinski, I warned you what would happen if you encouraged the rebellion, I warned you that your own emotions will be your undoing. What was it I said? It’s the things we love the most that destroy us.”

Stiles swallowed hard.

“I want you to remember that I said that,” Deucalion said firmly. He tilted his head as if he were sceptical of Stiles’ expression. His face twisted as the cynical smile returned as he asked, “Do you think I don’t know your friends are in the Tribute Centre?”

Stiles’ heart skipped a beat.

The signal cut out.

“No,” Stiles whimpered breathlessly. He spun around, struggling to breath as he looked at his dad. “He knows.”

His heart pounded against his ribs as he gulped down frail wisps of air.

“It’s a trap,” he wheezed. “He knows they’re there.”

 _Scott,_ Stiles thought. _I’ve lost him and it’s all my fault._

“Status,” Rafe ordered.

“There’s no signal,” the technician replied regretfully. “We can’t contact them.”

“We have to!” Stiles cried, tears falling down his cheeks. “We have to get them out.”

John stepped forward and pulled his son into his arms. He fought the boy’s flailing arms and held him close, whispering to him softly as the boy sobbed, “He knew the whole time. He was taunting me. I’ve lost them. I’ve lost them all.”

John held the boy close, shushing him and gently rocking him.

Stiles’ words dissolved into a mess of incoherent babbling as his tears soaked the thick fabric of John’s jumpsuit.

From beneath the mess of sobs and sniffed back tears, he could hear Stiles whimper, “It’s all my fault… Scott. I’m sorry… I’m sorry, Melissa. It’s all my fault.”  



	16. Chapter 16

Stiles studied every minute detail of the silver ring on his finger, spinning it around to see the small scratches and dents, patches where it gleamed as vibrantly as it did when it was first bought and other where it was dulled and faded.

His cheeks were damp with tears, his eyes swollen and bloodshot.

The room was silent, he was alone.

He kept spinning the ring around his finger, the friction against his skin reminding him it was there.

The sound of soft footsteps crept closer as someone sat down next to him. Her head rested against his shoulder, loose waves of copper curls dancing in the corner of his vision.

“It’s my fault,” Stiles muttered. “Derek wouldn’t have been tortured if it wasn’t for me. Scott wouldn’t have gone to the Capitol if it wasn’t for me. People wouldn’t be dying if it wasn’t for me.”

“People always die, that’s just part of life and if they die for a cause then it was their choice to fight,” Lydia said softly. “Don’t you think Scott would have saved Derek of his own accord? Don’t you think Derek would have sacrificed himself to the Capitol if it meant saving you? Just because it seems like they did it because of you, doesn’t mean they wouldn’t have otherwise.”

“I’m so scared,” Stiles admitted. “It feels like I’m in the Hunger Games all over again; like I’m standing in the Reaping and his name got called again."

“Thantophobia,” Lydia whispered. “The fear of losing someone you love.”

Another figure approached.

“I’m going to go and find Melissa,” Lydia announced, giving Stiles a gentle kiss on the cheek before rising to her feet and leaving.

The newcomer sat down next to Stiles.

“There’s no news,” Rafael told him. His voice was quiet, strained and full of fear – an emotion that didn’t suit him; it seemed so ungenuine. “It’s the worst kind of torture: waiting and knowing there’s nothing you can do. Especially for people like us.”

“What would you know?” Stiles growled. “You walked away.”

“I watched the Games every year, dreading that I might one day hear Scott’s name called.”

Stiles didn’t look up at him. “It was and you weren’t there.”

“But you were, and what you did for him when his name was called… I can’t find the words to thank you for saving his life.”

“I didn’t save his life. He walked into a trap because of me,” Stiles muttered.

“If there’s one thing I’ve learnt, it’s that whatever strength, courage, and madness we have, we find it in times like this,” Rafe said softly. “You have it, soldier. And Scott has it too. It’s what has kept you alive all this time and it won’t fail you now.”

There was a gentle tug at Stiles’ sleeve, interrupting them.

Stiles turned and looked at Isaac.

The younger boy clutched the worn copy of _The Little Prince_ to his chest. His stunning azure eyes were full of tears and Stiles knew he was just as scared at the thought of losing Scott as anyone and everyone else.

Stiles gently patted at the seat beside him, holding out his arm and letting the boy curl up into his chest.

“Will you read to me?” Stiles asked, his voice a soft whisper.

Isaac sniffed back tears and nodded. He set the book down on the table, rubbing at his eyes slightly as he sat up properly and began to read.

 

The hours of waiting were agonising. After a while, Corey found them in the secluded room and sat down with them, listening to Isaac read the familiar story again and again. He and Stiles exchanged glances full of pain and fear.

Stiles reached across the table to hold Corey’s hand, giving it a gentle, reassuring squeeze. He opened his mouth to say something when Lydia came rushing into the room, her shoulders heaving with shallow, panting breaths as she announced, “They’re back.”

Everyone scrambled to their feet, hurrying as fast as they could through the crowded platforms and towards the infirmary.

They looked around the medical bay, eyes frantically searching the faces.

Melissa stood by Chris and Peter, checking them for injuries while other medical personal dealt with a thrashing boy. He was grunting and hissing like an animal, shoving away the hands that held needles, IVs, and bandages.

“Mason?” Corey called, stunned. His dark eyes wree misted with fear, as if he was scared it was all a dream and – if he blinked – it would all go away.

Mason stilled, looking at Corey. A bright smile lit up his face, tears of joy welling in his arms as he broke free of the medical personnel and leapt to his feet. He sprinted across the room and leapt into Corey’s arms.

Corey held him close, cupping the back of his head and burying his face in Mason’s shoulder to hide his tears.

Mason leant back slightly, cupping Corey’s cheeks and bringing their mouths together in a passionate kiss.

Stiles held Isaac close as they continued to search the infirmary.

The Mute sat in the corner, a thick gash taken out of his cheek as if something had been hurled at him. He sat still as doctors pulled shards of glass from his face and stitched up the gaping wound. Splotches of red, purple and green marred his cheekbone as the bruising began to show through. He met Stiles’ eyes, nodding slightly as the boy passed by.

They turned and headed towards the private rooms and isolation wing.

At the end of the long hallway stood a familiar figure.

“Scott!” Stiles shouted, sprinting over to his friend’s side and hugging him close. He grabbed at fistfuls of Scott’s shirt, holding him close as Scott returned the hug.

His chest ached with relief, his body too tired and wound up with anxiety to cry.  His hands trembled as he reached back and pulled Isaac into the embrace.

Stiles slowly let go of his friend, letting Isaac hug Scott.

They younger boy buried his face in Scott’s chest, his shoulders shaking as he sniffed back his sobs. Another wave of tears over came him and Scott held him closer, gently swaying him and shushing him.

“It’s okay,” Scott whispered. “We’re okay.”

“What happened to the Mute?” Stiles asked.

“When we got Derek out, he was in shock. We were fully suited up so he couldn’t see our faces and I guess it startled him. The Mute took his mask off to show Derek who he was but Derek acted before he saw. He smashed a beaker against the Mute’s face and we had to sedate him for the flight back,” Scott explained. “They’re both okay. The Mute just needed a few stitches and Derek should wake up in a minute or two.”

Stiles let out a sigh of relief, but it was short lived as he looked at Scott’s contemplative, confused expression.

“What?” Stiles asked. “What is it?”

“I don’t get it,” Scott muttered. “Every gun was online and pointed right at us, but we flew straight past them. They let us go…” Scott’s voice drifted off in thought and after a second he regained his senses. After a moment, he pointed to the nearby room and said, “He’s in there. The sedative should be wearing off and you should be there when he wakes up.”

Stiles gave him another quick hug and whispered, “Thank you.”

Stiles opened the door and quietly stepped into the room.

Derek was awake and sitting up on the edge of his bed.

Stiles swallowed hard.

Even from behind, he could tell how broken Derek was; his usually golden skin was pasty and white, his firm arms were slender and trembling, and the reflection in the far cabinet showed how hollow his cheeks were and how dark the circles under his eyes were.

Stiles slowly took a step forward, creeping around the edge of the bed.

“Derek,” he whispered as he rounded the bed to stand before Derek.

The older boy was trembling, his clear eyes unfocused as he stared into oblivion.

“Derek,” Stiles called again, slightly louder but not too loud as to startle Derek.

Derek raised his head and looked at Stiles. For a second he looked confused, then his dark eyes brightened with a flash of recognition.

Stiles couldn’t help but smile.

He was back.

He was alive.

Derek’s face fell, his eyes darkened.

Stiles didn’t get a chance to react; in a second, he leapt off the bed and slammed Stiles back against the glass cabinet. His hands were around the boy’s throat, clamping down and suffocating him.

Stiles wheezed and gasped for air. Searing pain tore through him, a raging inferno erupting in his chest.

Derek hurled Stiles across the room.

The boy hit the concrete wall with a heavy thud and a pained grunt. He slumped to the ground weakly, his vision blurred and filled with strobing lights.

Derek vaulted the bed and pinned Stiles down, slamming his fist into the boy’s jaw.

Stiles spat blood across the tiles, couching and gasping for air as the metallic taste of blood seeped into his mouth.

Derek’s hands returned to his throat, his tight grasp strangling Stiles with lethal force.

Stiles didn’t fight back.

He looked up at Derek, watching how the man’s face contorted in rage. He had one goal on his mind: kill.

 _Maybe I deserve this_ , Stiles thought, his vision blurring as he lungs were consumed by a burning agony.

The swirling amber depths of Stiles’ eyes were not filled with fear, anger or shock, but instead glimmered with sorrow and forgiveness.

 _I deserve this,_ he told himself.

His vision darkened.

His eyes slowly falling shut as his lips grew blue.

_I deserve this._

From beyond the haze he could hear Scott’s voice.

Derek didn’t react.

Through the haze that blurred his vision, he saw Scott grab the nearby tray and slam it over Derek’s head.

Derek’s body fell to the ground beside Stiles, limp and unconscious.

Stiles wanted to call out to him, but he couldn’t; his mouth was dry, his lungs were deprived of breath, and his vision was diminishing as his eyes fell shut and his body fell weak.

He felt the earth beneath him fall away; the cool darkness of the abyss reaching up and consuming him, dragging him into the depths of nothingness. 


	17. Chapter 17

Stiles bolted upright in bed, gasping for air. He thrashed about, fighting off the hands that reached forward to hold him back against the sheets.

Among the mess of people, one pushed away all the others and climbed onto the bed, pulling him forward and holding Stiles close in a familiar, warm embrace.

Stiles slowly began to settle into the comfort and security of the boy’s arms as the familiar voice finally reached him.

“It’s okay, Stiles,” Scott whispered. “You’re okay.”

His throat felt dry and swollen as he painfully rasped, “Derek?”

“Try not to talk,” Scott instructed. “Your throat is pretty swollen and bruised.”

“How’s Derek?” Stiles repeated.

“Derek’s okay,” Scott assured him. “We just had to get him off you.”

“What’s wrong?” Stiles asked, his voice strained and broken. “What did I do wrong?”

“You did nothing,” Stiles explained, keeping his voice low and comforting. “It’s called hijacking, it’s fear conditioning that’s amplified by tracker jacker venom. You’ve been stung before and you know how bad it is.”

Stiles nodded and bowed his head, fighting back the memories of all the horrific experiences he’s had with tracker jackers.

“When stung, the venom puts you in a dissociated state,” Scott continued. “So, when they gave it to Derek, they put him in a position where his defences were dropped, then they tortured him with shocks and beatings – at least that’s what his medical report says. They stripped down his identity until he had nothing but fear and anger and then they associated it with other memories, say those of a specific person… of you.”

Stiles seemed stunned, his eyes filling with pain as he bowed his head and hid his face in the shadows.

Scott swallowed hard as he said, “They turned him into a weapon. One specifically designed to kill you.”

Stiles looked up at Melissa pleadingly and asked, “You can fix this, right?”

Melissa exhaled heavily, her warm chocolate eyes full of pain and worry as she said, “Fear is one of the hardest things to overcome. We can be optimistic and hope that what we do will help, but I’m not certain of any results… I’m sorry.”

Stiles’ heart skipped a beat. His stomach churned and knotted as he slumped back against the pillows his eyes filling with tears.

In the distance, he heard Scott say something about giving him time to rest and that they will be at the assembly if anything happened.

After that, they left, leaving Stiles alone.

Hot, heavy tears welled in his eyes, slowly falling down his cheeks as he buried his face in the pillows.

A little while later, he heard the roaring applause of the assembly as they gathered downstairs and Rafael began his speech, “Yesterday, we organised a covert operation to infiltrate the Capitol and I am pleased to announce that the victors have been liberated.”

The crowd cheered, the sound rattling through Stiles’ hollow body and sickening him.

“Liberated,” Stiles scoffed to himself as he sat upright on the bed.

He glanced down at the ring on his finger, spinning the silver band and feeling the friction burn at his slender digit.

“Let this day be marked in history,” Rafael continued. “With the spark of the rebellion and the victors of the Quarter Quell beside us, we have sent a clear message to the Capitol that we will never again endure injustice.”

Stiles rose to his feet, swaying slightly as he steadied himself. His legs trembled and stumbled beneath him as he crept towards the door.

He peered out of the room, checking that the hallway was vacant. Most of the medical staff were at the assembly, leaving the medical bay with one or two people to monitor the patients that couldn’t move.

He stepped out into the hall and made his way towards the isolated rooms at the back of the infirmary.

He could hear Rafe’s voice echoing through the whole of District Thirteen as he announced, “Today, a day on which we reunited family, friends and loved ones, let all of Beacon Hills come together. Not to battle for the amusement of the Capitol, but to join hands in this fight.”

Stiles stopped before the isolation room, stepping into the small observation room. His heart sank into his stomach, tears welling in his eyes, as he leant forward to look through the small windows and into the room.

“Let today be the day we promise to never give up or give in until we have made a new Beacon Hills, one where leaders are elected and not imposed on us, where Districts can benefit from the fruits of their labours and not have to fight one another for scraps. This new Beacon Hills is on the horizon but we must take it for ourselves,” Rafe said boldly.

The isolation room was pristine, the padded white walls glaring as the overhead lights lit the room.

It was torture in and of itself.

Aside from the small silver table full of surgical tools that were stored away in the corner, the only furniture was a small medical bed adorned with thick leather restraints.

Rafe voice was quiet, solemn as he continued, “The road there is through the sharp mountains and deep ravines of District Two. There in the heart of the District lies the Capitol’s military facility. We can conquer this stronghold because we are one people, one army, one voice. Because today is our new beginning. Today, we have freed the victors; tomorrow, we free Beacon Hills.”

The sound of cheering and chant shook tears from Stiles, the glistening droplets streaking his cheeks as he looked down at Derek, heartbroken, helpless and utterly shattered.

The older boy was screaming as he thrashed about in the restraints. He wailed and cried as he arched off the bed and threw his body about. He sobbed violently, tears streaking his face and his cheeks red. He was left gasping for breath as his body shuddered and he fell back against the bedsheets, weak and defeated.

 _That’s not him_ , Stiles thought. _That’s not my Derek_.


	18. Chapter 18

Stiles sat upright on the edge of his hospital bed, a nurse standing before him and gently pressing her fingers to his throat and testing for damage among the decreasing swelling and large handprint-shaped bruise.

“Okay, why don’t we try using your voice,” the nurse encouraged. “Try saying ‘My name is Stiles Stilinski. I’m from District Twelve’. Nice and slow.”

Stiles nodded.

“My name is Stiles Stilinski. I’m from District Twelve,” Stiles rasped.

“And again,” the nurse prompted.

“My name is Stiles Stilinski. I’m from District Twelve,” Stiles repeated, his voice clearing slightly.

“Good. It’s still a little swollen but that should go down in a day or two,” the nurse announced. “Even so, try not to use your voice too much.”

Stiles nodded and looked across the room at Rafael, who was hovering in the corner; he was worried about the symbol of the rebellion, not Stiles.

“I want to talk to him,” Stiles said.

Rafe shook his head. “He needs time. We’re trying something new today. He’s been cold to the doctors, but we think that may be because they’re strangers to him. So, we’re going to test what it’s like when he sees someone he remembers, someone he won’t see as a threat, someone from home who he knows and trusts.”

“You can watch,” Peter offered, stepping over to the bed and offering Stiles a hand.

Stiles let Peter help him to his feet, feeling the man’s arm fall around his slender shoulders.

Peter led Stiles back to the observation room.

Lydia was already there and waiting for them.

Rafael leant out of the doorway and instructed, “Send him in.”

Stiles watched as the door buzzed and the young figure entered. His heart skipped a beat as his mouth dried.

“Isaac? You’re sending in Isaac?” Stiles squawked.

“It’s okay,” Peter assured him. “Derek’s restrained, he can’t hurt Isaac.”

“That doesn’t mean he can’t scare him,” Stiles countered.

“It’ll be okay,” Lydia assured him.

Stiles looked back to the room, watching as Isaac stepped forward and whispered, “Hi, Derek.”

Derek straightened his back, looking at the boy with bright eyes. “Isaac?”

Isaac smiled and moved over to the bed, clutching his favourite book to his chest.

“He’s too close,” Peter muttered, concerned.

“It’s fine,” Rafe dismissed.

Derek nodded towards the book in Isaacs arms. “Is that _The Little Prince_?”

Isaac nodded. “I’ve been reading to get better but it’s not as fun reading it on my own.”

“Isaac, where are we?” Derek asked.

“We’re in District Thirteen now,” Isaac explained. “It’s a real place. The stories are true.”

Derek zoned out for a moment before mumbling, “There was an attack on Twelve.”

“Yes,” Isaac confirmed. “But it’s okay. We’re all okay. Scott and John and Chris and Melissa and Peter and the others, we’re all okay.”

“This is because of Stiles,” Derek muttered under his breath.

“This isn’t because of Stiles,” Isaac said softly.

“Did he tell you to say that?” Derek asked, his voice low and threatening.

“No,” Isaac whimpered, trembling in fear as he frantically shook his head and clutched the book closer to his chest.

“He’s a liar, Isaac,” Derek said. “It’s a trick.”

“What you’re saying isn’t real,” Isaac replied. “Stiles wouldn’t lie.”

Derek looked at the boy, his eyes full of worry. It quickly grew into fear as he began to shout, “He sent you here to talk to me. He knows you’re here.”

Isaac shook his head.

“You can’t trust him!” Derek howled, thrashing about. “He’s a monster! He’s a monster the capitol create to destroy us! You have to kill him, Isaac. You have to kill him.”

Isaac cupped his hands over his ears shaking his head feverishly as he rose to his feet and sprinted towards the door.

“Get him out of there,” Peter ordered. He pushed past Stiles and Rafe and ran towards the door, pulling Isaac into his arms as soon as the boy was out of the room. He cupped the back of the boy’s head whispering softly to him and pressing soft kisses to his mess of golden curls as the boy sobbed into his shirt.

Stiles couldn’t move. He stared down at Derek as the older boy thrashed about in his restraints, shouting and screaming. His eyes filled with tears.

“Stiles?” Lydia said softly. “Stiles, this is just a conditioned response. It’s not him.”

“No,” Stiles muttered. “No, it’s not.”

 

Stiles sat alone in his bedroom.

Scott had been waiting for them when they returned, but when he saw Isaac’s condition he decided it would be best if they went downstairs into the new garden level, where farmers tended to fresh produce and grew flowers; Isaac liked it there. It reminded them all of the meadow in District Twelve, and Isaac had decided that it was his new safe place, a choice they all approved of; it was much better than the vents.

They had left a while ago, leaving Stiles alone in the screaming silence of the room.

There was a quiet knock at the door as Lydia stepped inside. She crossed the small room and sat down next to Stiles.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

“He’s right,” Stiles muttered weakly.

“No, he’s not,” Lydia said softly. “He doesn’t know what he’s saying.”

“No, he _is_ right,” Stiles argued. “The Capitol made me a monster.”

“Not all monsters do monstrous things,” Lydia countered.

They sat in silence after that.

Lydia reached across and took Stiles’ hand in her own, dropping her head to his shoulder and sitting quietly as they looked at the gorgeous mural that Corey had painted across the wall.

After a moment, Stiles spoke.

“I’ve got to get out of here,” he said. “I’ve got to do something.”

 

Stiles pushed open the door to the Control Room and stepped inside. He crossed over to Rafael’s side, watching as the man’s face lit up with a bright smile as he welcomed the boy.

“I’m glad you’re feeling better,” Rafe said although Stiles knew he didn’t really mean it.

“Deucalion has to pay for what he’s done,” Stiles said firmly. “I want to help the rebels in any way I can.”

“I understand it’s hard to see Derek this way,” Rafe started slowly.

“That’s not Derek,” Stiles interrupted.

Rafael swallowed hard, letting his words drift off.

“Send me to the Capitol,” Stiles insisted. “I’ll do what I can.”

“I can’t,” Rafe said, almost apologetically. “We can’t get into the Capitol until we control District Two. Sending you to the front lines would be dangerous.”

“Then send me to Two,” Stiles said firmly. “You want me to fire up our troops? You want me to keep this rebellion going? Then send me out there.”

“Stiles, we can’t send you out into the war while you’re still recovering,” Rafe said firmly. “You need to be able to fight.”

“Then send me to Two and let me show you what I can do.”


	19. Chapter 19

The jet planes took off under the cover of the night, flying over the Districts.

Stiles was getting used to flying, but that didn’t mean he liked it. Unlike others in the carrier, he still refused to unfasten his harness during the journey. He held onto the thick straps and steadied himself.

Scott crossed the carrier and sat down next to Stiles.

“You doing okay?” Scott asked.

“I’m fine,” Stiles said shortly.

“I saw Derek before we left,” Scott told him.

“What do you think?” Stiles asked, glancing out the corner of his eye at Scott.

“We may never get him back but you’re never going to let him go,” Scott replied honestly. He paused for a moment, eyeing Stiles suspiciously before asking, “What’s going on in your head?”

“I don’t know,” Stiles admitted.

Scott sighed and rose to his feet, securing cargo before returning to his own seat across the carrier and leaving Stiles alone to his thoughts.

After a minute or two, he heard Scott’s voice. He glanced up to see Scott talking to some of the military personnel from District Thirteen.

“It’s called a hummingbird trap,” Scott explained. “You set off bombs or gunfire around the outskirts of your area. You set off smoke and everything across the space and it blinds them. They panic and flee to the one area where they think they’re safe, not realising that they’ve just herded themselves into a trap. They consider themselves to be safe and let down their defences until the explosion.”

Stiles unfastened his harness, staggering slightly as he made his way towards Scott and the others.

Scott continued, “Then you wait for the wave of first responders, allow enough time for people to rush in and help the wounded and then-”

“A second bomb,” Stiles finished.

All eyes turned to him.

“I guess there’s no more rules about what a person can do to another person,” Stiles growled, his voice full of disappointment that he directed at Scott.

“I don’t think Deucalion though about that when he hijacked Derek,” Scott countered.

“We’re not the Capitol,” Stiles argued.

The pilot’s voice came over the intercom, interrupting them as he announced, “Two minutes until touch down. Prepare for landing.”

They all went about their assigned duties, cautiously stepping around the crates of munitions and medical supplies as they secured the cargo and returned to their seats.

The ship jostled slightly as they set down in District Two.

Araya was the first to move, unfastening her harness and stepping forward.

“Come on, Stiles,” she encouraged softly. “You take the lead.”

Stiles nodded, unbuckling himself and collecting his weapons. He made his way towards the door, followed by Araya, Scott and a few others.

The ramp of the carrier lowered and Stiles made his way out into District Two.

He was stunned for a moment, taking in the sight of District Two. The last time he was here it was crowded with people who were clean and adorned with jewels, not with was as desolate and destroyed as District Twelve. The streets weren’t stacked with corpses, but the civilians were covered in dirt and ash, the buildings were toppled and the District Hospital – a large shed beside the Justice Building – was full of injured men, women and children.

From among the masses of armed soldiers, one man stepped forwards to greet them.

“Welcome to District Two,” he said with a kind smile. “I’m Corporal Holmes, please follow me.”

They followed the man across the open space and towards the Justice Building when a large mortar shell hit the ground on the outskirts of the District, shaking the earth.

Stiles flinched, tightening his grip on his bow and readying himself for a fight.

“Don’t worry,” Corporal Holmes assured them. “It’s just how they say good morning.”

 

“President McCall,” the leader of District Two addressed the man, looking at Rafe’s face through the video call. “We are indebted to you for the reinforcements and for the assistance of the spark himself.” The woman glanced towards Stiles and nodded her head courteously before continuing, “But I’m not sure anyone outside Two knows what we’ve been up against.”

The table before them lit up with a holographic map of a mountain, the silhouette disrupted by the shape of a complex labyrinth of tunnels and a fortress of military defences.

“This is the Nut,” the leader of District Two explained. “It’s the Capitol’s central hub for all defences and it’s manned by both military and civilian personnel from District Two. As you can see, it’s a fortress that is laid beneath impenetrable bedrock. Yesterday, we tried to take it from the north-east entrance but we were overpowered by forces higher up and we were forced to pull back. We sustained heavy losses.”

“What if you send a decoy troop?” one of the soldiers from District Thirteen offered. “One group of troops could distract them at one entrance while the real team moves in at another angle?”

“And what troops do you propose we use as ‘decoys’,” one of the soldiers from Two asked, slightly offended.

Rafe interrupted, his voice calm and level as he said, “Do not forget we have the spark. And do not underestimate him. We could use him to rally up some of the troops, turn them on your side and enlarge your army.”

“You’ve been underground a long time, President McCall,” the leader of Two replied, her voice somewhat polite and calming. “This isn’t like the rest of Beacon Hills; support of the Capitol runs deep here.”

“Then there is no sacrifice too great,” Rafe said solemnly. “We need to control the arsenal inside that fortress. Even with ever District on our side, we are outgunned.”

“I won’t condone my troops being sent in and risk their lives to pillage guns,” Corporal Holmes objected.

“Corporal, your people have suffered great losses, but we can’t keep tip toeing around this fight. If we don’t take Two we will never get into the Capitol.”

Scott spoke up and said, “What if we don’t take it, but just disarm it?”

“How do you propose we do that?” Corporal Holmes asked.

“It’s like a wolf den. You’re not going to be able to fight your way in so you have two options, trap them in there or flush them out,” Scott explained.

They all turned to face him, making it clear that he had their attention.

“If we use the hover crafts to strike the mountain or around the entrances,” Scott continued. “We might just be able to trigger seismic energy and cause an avalanche. It’ll cut of their supplies of food and air until they get desperate.”

Stiles was sickened by the idea.

“You want to bury them alive?” the Commander reiterated, voicing Stiles’ thoughts before the boy had the chance to.

“It may be our only choice,” Scott replied. “But either way, we’d be facing a weakened Capitol.”

“We should at least give them a chance to surrender,” Araya said. “We could use a supply tunnel to evacuate people.”

“That’s a luxury we weren’t given when they fire bombed Twelve,” Scott muttered.

“There has to be another way,” Stiles objected. “You’re talking about hundreds if not thousands of civilians being buried alive in the tunnels or injured to a degree where they can’t escape. What happens to those people?”

Rafael ignored him and announced, “I vote that we go with the plan for an avalanche. Bomb every entrance and exit but the train route. Civilians can escape that way and come out in the District centre where troops will be waiting for their surrender.”

Corporal Holmes added, “We’ll have all available medical units on standby to treat the wounded.”

“And what if they don’t surrender?” the leader of District Two asked.

“Then we will need a compelling voice to persuade them,” Rafe said suggestively.

All eyes turned to Stiles.

 

The fleet of aircraft took off, their engines rumbling as they flew into the night.

Stiles stood on a higher level of the Justice Building, watching as the stealthy ships disappeared into the darkness. He bowed his head, feeling his lungs burn for air as he let out a heavy sigh.

“Stiles,” Araya called, walking over to the boy’s side and standing proud as she watched the ships fly across the District. “There’s no difference between blowing them out of the sky with an arrow and bombing them in a tunnel.”

“We were under attack in Nine and that hover craft wasn’t full of civilians, it was a Capitol-sent ship from the Nut that bombed and killed hundreds of innocent civilians. Taking it down was meant to stop the bombings and prevent the loss of life, not to prompt further attacks and risk injuring or killing people in the process,” Stiles said firmly, his voice a low growl as his throat grew painfully dry.

“It doesn’t matter,” Araya replied softly. “Even if those civilians are mopping the floor they’re still helping the enemy. If they have to die, I can live with that. Anyone who support the Capitol is an enemy and deserve to die.”

“With that kind of thinking you can kill everyone,” Stiles said bluntly. He turned and glared at Araya. “With that kind of thinking you can send kids off to the Hunger Games to keep the Districts in line.”

A tendering boom silenced them as the first bomb dropped, quickly followed by another and another, just like cannons firing.

The people down the hallway and across the District began to cheer, clapping and rejoicing.

“This is just another Hunger Games,” Stiles pointed out. “There’s a loud noise that signals someone’s dead and everyone cheers.”

“This is war, Stiles,” Araya corrected. “Killing people isn’t personal. I figured that if anyone knew that it’d be you.”

“I of all people know that it’s always personal,” Stiles growled.

The cheering crowd grew louder as the jets circled around and dropped another barrage of bombs.

Stiles turned away, his stomach churning.

Peter elbowed his way through the gathering crowd and made his way over to Stiles’ said. He slung his arm around the boy’s shoulder and said, “Come on, kid. Let’s get you ready.”

Peter escorted Stiles to the entrance of the train tunnel, where Scott was waiting for them.

Stiles gently patted his friend’s shoulder as he stepped over to Scott’s side. He stopped for a moment and whispered, “There’s going to be injured civilians, I need you to make sure they get the treatment they need.”

Scott nodded.

Stiles let Scott guide him towards the entrance to the train tunnel that had been barricaded in by parked vehicles, large crates and whatever resources they could find to make buffers and barriers.

They were surrounded by military personnel, armed and ready for a fight.

“Are the guns really necessary?” Stiles muttered under his breath.

“It’s just a precaution,” Peter assured him.

“It’ll be okay, Stiles,” Araya said, carrying her own rifle. “People will have survived.”

“Now you just need to focus on what to say,” Peter instructed. “Rafe wrote a speech-“

“I’m not reading that,” Stiles interrupted.

“Okay.” Peter tossed the cue cards over his shoulder. “Lydia wrote one as back up.”

“I’m not reading that either,” Stiles replied.

Peter shrugged and discarded the second set of cards. “Okay. But just remember that you’re talking to everyone, not just the rebels but the Capitol supporters and soldiers. You want them to lay down their arms. So you might want to experiment with a little sensitivity and warmth.”

Stiles nodded and began to walk towards the entrance of the train tunnel. He turned back and faced Severo and his crew, cameras readied and rolling.

Severo nodded, encouraging Stiles to begin.

“This is Stiles Stilinski, speaking to all the survivors at the heart of District Two,” Stiles started but was quickly interrupted by the grinding of metal and the bright lights as a large train drew closer.

Araya stepped forward, patting Stiles’ shoulder and ushering him back behind the barricade that had been set up.

“Gun’s at the ready,” Two’s soldiers shouted.

The wheels of the train clunked and screeched across the rails as the train slowed to a stop. As soon as the train pulled to a halt, the anamorphous shadows that moved like bubbling water overflowed form the train carriages as one by one the people jumped to the ground, dropped to their knees and surrendered.

The guards from District Two began to howl, “Drop your weapons! Get on the ground!”

The floodlights lit up the faces of the civilians, terrified and covered in blood. Many had rags and torn clothes wrapped around their arms or their heads, swirls of red and brown soaking through the cotton.

One man stumbled off the front of the train, clutching a bloody rag to one ear with one hand and a pistol in the other.

Araya raised her gun, aiming the barrel at the man as she ordered, “You! Drop your weapon!”

The man didn’t reply. He staggered about slightly.

“Drop your weapon!” Araya repeated.

Guns fired and civilians dropped to the ground down towards the far carriages.

“Stop!” Stiles howled, picking up his feet and running towards the civilians.

“Hold your fire,” Araya bellowed.

“He needs help,” Stiles shouted as he ran towards the young man with the bloody rag to his ear.

He dropped to his knees by the young man’s side, cautiously reaching forward.

The man bolted upright, dropping the rag as he grabbed a fistful of Stiles’ unkempt hair and pulled it back.

Stiles yelped with pain, silenced by the sensation of a cold metal barrel pressed to his throat.

“Give me one good reason I shouldn’t shoot you,” the man sneered, his voice low and quiet.

Stiles didn’t reply.

The survivor pushed the gun further against Stiles’ pulse, ignoring Araya as she continued to yell at him to drop his gun.

He looked at the man, watching how his breathing heaved his shoulders up and down, flaring his nostrils as his bright blue eyes glared at Stiles.

“I can’t,” Stiles whispered. “And that’s the problem isn’t it. We blew up your mine, you burnt our District to the ground. We both have a reason to kill each other. So if you want to kill me, do it. Make Deucalion happy. I’m tired of killing slaves for him.”

“I’m not a slave,” the man growled.

“We’re all slaves,” Stiles replied calmly. “That’s how it’s always been. That’s why Allison killed Jackson, and Ennis killed Allison, and Derek killed Ennis, Kate tried to kill Derek and I killed Kate; it just goes around and around. And who wins? Who always wins? Deucalion.”

The man was listening to him intently now.

“I’m done being a piece in his games,” Stiles continued. “I’m from Twelve and you’re from Two, we have no reason to fight each other. But the Capitol has given us so many reasons to fight them, so why are you fighting the rebels? They’re your neighbours. They’re your friends and family, not your enemies.”

The man’s hand trembled. He bit into his lips, slowly lowering the gun from Stiles’ throat and releasing his grip on Stiles’ thick hair. He held his arm out to the side and made a show of dropping the gun.

Stiles met his gaze, looking at him sympathetically as the man slowly sat back and bowed his head. Slowly, he pulled his eyes away from the man and looked at all the others who had dismounted the train. His gaze wondered to the soldiers, their guns trained on the survivors and fingers eager on the triggers.

Stiles slowly rose to his feet and shouted, “These people are not your enemy. We all have one enemy, and that’s Deucalion. He corrupts everyone and everything. He turns the best of us against each other. Stop killing for him.”

The soldiers lowered their weapons.

Stiles swallowed hard and continued, his voice ringing across the space, “Tonight, turn your weapons to the Capitol. Turn your weapons to Deucalion.”

Among the crowd one man leapt to his feet.

He pointed a gun at Stiles and fired three shots.

Stiles’ body jolted. And – for a moment – he felt weightless, his breath falling past his lips as his body fell backwards.

He hit the ground with a heavy thud, his eyes staring blankly up at the twinkling sheet of stars that covered the abysmal black night sky. His eyelids grew heavy, falling shut as he fell into the inescapable darkness.


	20. Chapter 20

Red.

Everything was red.

Stiles laid on his back, unable to move his limbs as the room slowly filled with liquid, the trickling ooze enveloping his limbs inch by inch.

Ruby red blood coated his body like a second skin made of liquid.

Droplets rose around him, distinct gleaming gems of red liquid rising from the ground to the roof.

He couldn’t turn his head but he glanced out the corner of his eye, watching as the glistening liquid reflected the bright glow of his eyes.

He felt his chest rise with the tide of warm liquid. His fingers floated to the surface, bushing against something solid. He didn’t have to look, he knew what it was.

He slowly corrected his body, sitting upright and wading as he looked at what had struck him.

A body, one of many.

Among the hundreds of corpses were the familiar faces of the people he knew, the people he loved: Scott, Isaac, Melissa, Chris, Peter, his Dad, Laura Allison, Coach, Corey, the Mute, Mason and many others.

Their horrified expressions and pain-filled faces were still burnt into his retinas.

They lay in the pool of blood with him, torn flesh and disfigured limbs cast aside as they swirled with the brewing tide.

He wavered on the rippling pool of plasma, feeling weightless as the cool air rolled over his dampened fingertips. The heat seeped through his clothes, caressing his smooth skin.

His breath fell short of his lips as he glanced down at the body beside him.

Allison.

He screamed and waded away, pulling himself into the shallows.

His back thumped back against a pair of legs, prompting him to roll over and look at the person who towered over him.

“Derek,” Stiles gasped, the name falling from his lips effortlessly.

“You did this,” Derek said firmly, glaring down at the boy.

Stiles shook his head. “No, I didn’t. I didn’t do this.”

His hands trembled as he reached up for Derek. His hand slid through Derek’s body, melting through the layers of blood and tissue as if it were nothing. Blood gushed out of the open wounds, soaking Derek’s golden skin as the seams of muscles tightened around Stiles’ fingers and streams of blood trickled across the boy’s hands.

Derek’s heart throbbed, weak palpitations pushing against Stiles’ palm as it made one last try to keep the man alive.

Every drop that fell from the man’s body rose around them, crashing against the unseen walls like tidal waves before dissipating into the rippling sheet of crimson fluid.

Derek’s gleaming peridot irises of glazed over, his wide eyes falling shut weakly as his body slumped forward and he collapsed atop Stiles.

He was cold and lifeless, his weight bearing down on the boy as it pushed him beneath the surface of the swirling blood. The pool pulled shut above him, enveloping him in a whirlpool of hot, sticky blood.

He held his breath, feeling the carbon dioxide burn at the tissue of his lungs. He thrashed about, feeling hands grab at his arms and his legs, dragging him further into the depths. His chest was exploding, his head pounding. He opened his mouth to scream.

The bubbles rise to the surface, taking with them his strangled cries as the thick blood seeped into his mouth, clogged his throat, and suffocated him.

Stiles leapt upright, flailing about as his screams tore open his throat and emptied his lungs and he kicked about.

Breathless, he fell silent, breathing deeply as the world slowed and the glaring white light blinded him.

He squinted, his face creasing as he squinted against the glare of light.

He jolted upright as if he were shocked by electricity. The spasmodic muscle of his heart thumped against his rips. He could feel his body heat up as blood gushed through his veins.

He slumped back on his knees, lethargy dragging at every muscle of his being. His head lulled back, the sudden jerk giving him enough energy to hold his head upright.

He opened his eyes wider.

 _White. Everything’s white. It’s so damn bright_.

His hands began to tremble. Adrenaline leaked through his body, his eyes widening. His blood ran cold. He turned his head from side to side.

_There’s no end._

He heard something behind him. The rustle and hiss of static.

He turned his head towards the sound, locking he eyes on the dark shape. It had no distinctive features, just a dark silhouette like a shadow.

“ _Everyone has one, but no-one can lose it, what is it_?” the silhouetted figure asked.

“What?” Stiles gasped.

It repeated, “ _Everyone has one, but no-one can lose it, what is it_?”

“A shadow,” Stiles answered.

He slowly turned his head away and looked down at the ground beneath him.

_Why don’t I have a shadow? Where’s my shadow?_

He looked back at the silhouette, watching as the figure slowly moulded into a reflection of his own person.

“How dark can your soul get before you lose yourself?” the silhouetted reflection asked. “How many souls can you carry before you break?”

“What?” Stiles muttered, stumbling backwards as the shadow began to creep closer.

“How dark can your soul get before you lose yourself?” it repeated, breaking away into multiple figures, each with a familiar face: the faces of his friends, his family, of the fallen tributes and innocent civilians who had been killed for rebellion.

His dark reflection spoke once more, asking, “How many souls can you carry before you break?”

The dark figures multiplied, swarming together to form an unrecognisable amalgamation.

Wide eyes split their heads, gaping holes through their silhouettes.

“It’s not real,” he tried to convince himself, his voice failing him as he rasped, “It can’t be.”

Their bodies jerked, staggering slightly as they slowly started to move towards him.

He swallowed, saliva scratching at his dry throat. He rocked back onto the balls of his feet, angling himself away from the dark creatures.

They jolted forwards, moving faster than he could ever hope to run, white unseeing eyes locked onto their prey.

He pivoted on his ankles and ran.

His muscles burnt as he threw one leg in front of the other. Every time he lifted his foot he felt the strain, a strange weight, as if he were trying to pull free of chains.

A cold sweat coursed his body, leaving an icy chill down his spine as he gasped for air which never seemed to reach his lungs. He blinked the sweat out of his eyes, daring to look over his shoulder.

The dark figures had morphed together, rolling forwards like a tidal wave. The white eyes of the amalgamated figure topped the curves like the broken caps of water, screeching and howling as they drew closer and closer.

He turned his body around, legs trembling and slowing as he faced it.

_It’s not real._

The inky wave broke into the shapes of rigid tree branches, out stretched tendons dawning on him. Each jagged line reached out to him like hands.

_It’s not real._

His vision began to blur as hot tears welled in his eyes. He blinked hard, feeling the tears trace his cheeks their tender touch warming his skin.

 _It’s not real..._ _Wake up_ … _Wake up!_

He felt his body be hurled backwards.

The world stilled and for a moment as he was submerged in darkness.

His lungs ached form screaming and his breath was frail as it danced on his lips.

He screamed slowly died away, tears coursing his cheeks as he failed to free himself or shake the lingering illusions of his nightmares.

He stilled and took a second, looking around as he reminded himself where he was.

The door slid open and someone bolted into the room.

“It’s okay,” Stiles muttered. “I’m okay. It was just a nightmare.”

Derek sighed, his bright eyes full of worry as he sat down on the edge of the bed.

“It’s okay,” Derek assured him. “I get them too.”

Stiles crept forward and leant against Derek’s side, resting his head on the older boy’s shoulder. Derek wrapped his arm around the boy’s waist, holding him close. He gently brushed the glistening tears off Stiles’ pale cheeks with his free hand.

“Where were you?” Stiles whimpered, his voice quiet and strained.

Derek rested his cheek atop Stiles’ head and nuzzled his face into the boy’s unkempt locks. “I couldn’t sleep and I didn’t want to wake you.”

“Can you please stay with me?”

Derek nodded and crawled up onto the bed. He shuffled across the mattress and laid down beside Stiles. He rolled onto his side and pulled the smaller boy back against the warmth and security of his chest.

He nuzzled his face into the curve of Stiles’ shoulder and whispered, “Always.”

Stiles jolted awake with a short gasp. He bolted upright, panting and gulping down wisps of cool air as his body swayed about. His chest radiated with agonising pain. He winced, drawing breaths through gritted teeth as he slowly lowered himself back against the pillows.

He took in his surroundings: the stark white walls covered in machines and displays of his injuries, the uncomfortable mattress of the hospital bed, and the young boy who sat by his bedside.

“Mason?” Stiles whispered.

“Hey,” the younger boy replied with a weak smile. “It’s good to see you’re still alive. Are you feeling okay?”

“Yeah,” Stiles muttered. “Just nightmares.”

Stiles slowly lowered himself back against the sheets, feeling his ribs ache and burn.

“Your designer saved your life,” Mason pointed out. “The thick plating of your chest piece was designed to take the shock of a bullet and block it before it hit you, but getting hit by two shots still left you with some serious bruising and a broken rib or two while the third one was a through and through just below your chest plate. It didn’t do much damage, but it’s still going to be painful. At least, that’s what one of the medical staff said, the nice one.”

“The nice one? Long, dark, curly hair, softly spoken, kind smile, and always got a shy kid following her around?” Stiles asked.

Mason smiled and nodded. “Yeah, her.”

“That’s Melissa,” Stiles announced, his cheeks tweaking upwards with a soft smile. “She’s really nice… She’s family.”

There was a moment of quiet before Stiles turned to look at Mason.

His eyes were dark and encircled by shadows that proved he hadn’t been sleeping well either. He looked malnourished and frail, but – unlike Derek – he only had a few bruises on his cheeks and around his eye sockets.

“How are you?” Stiles asked.

“I’m okay,” Mason replied. “A little traumatised, but okay.” He bowed his head before quietly adding, “Derek took the beatings.”

Stiles’ heart skipped a beat.

“He refused to let the Capitol and their dogs touch me,” Mason explained. “He took the venom, he took the beatings, he did the press releases… He did everything he could to keep me safe from everything they were doing…”

“That’s what he does,” Stiles said softly. “He keeps us safe.”

Mason bowed his head, his eyes glimmering with guilt.

“What’s wrong?” Stiles asked.

“I can still hear his screams,” Mason replied, fidgeting with his fingers and trembling. “They don’t go away.”

Stiles reached out and took Mason’s hand in his own.

The boy flinched slightly before slowly relaxing, his hand shaking as he squeezed Stiles’.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles whispered. “This is all my fault.”

Mason shook his head.

“I went back to fix the wire,” he reminded Stiles. “I split away from the group and the plan.”

“But the plan was my idea,” Stiles countered. “You would have been better off staying away from me.”

“I would have been dead if I didn’t stay with you,” Mason argued. “You saved me from the poison fog, from the mutts and you helped me find Corey.”

Stiles smiled at the last part.

“I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for you,” Mason finished.

“Here isn’t the best place to be,” Stiles muttered.

“But I’m alive, I have Corey, I have you and Derek, I’m safe,” Mason listed. “And while that may not be the best thing, it’s definitely a start.”

“You should have been the spark,” Stiles rasped.

Mason shook his head. “No-one likes me, not the way they like you. And the Capitol… In the Capitol, they only fear one thing: you.”

Stiles scoffed.

“I hate this place,” Mason admitted.

“I do too,” Stiles agreed.

He thought for a moment.

Mason didn’t have anything. He didn’t go into the arena with any trinkets or memorabilia – like Stiles did with Allison’s necklace and Derek with the ring – and neither did Corey. And, like Stiles, neither of them had a home to return to.

Stiles turned and looked about the room until his eyes fell upon the suit of armour that sat on the chair on the other side of his bed. He picked up the belt and located two of the silver rings with a solid black band on them that were meant to be used for carrying supplies but looked as if they were there for decoration. He tore them from the fabric, silently apologising to Deaton as he did. He set them aside and dug into one of the pouches for two pieces of cord. He looped the cord through the rings and tied them off before passing them to Mason.

“What’s this?” Mason asked.

“One for you and one for Corey,” Stiles explained. “I’ll find something for the Mute later.”

“Why?” Mason asked.

“Because you didn’t come here with anything and in a place where everything is uniform and dull, it’s nice to have a personal touch,” Stiles explained. “And besides, you and Corey are a pair.”

Mason blushed, bowing his head to hiding his smile as he whispered, “Thank you.”

They younger boy’s eyes drifted to the small table beside Stiles’ bed. He reached forward and picked up the silver ring, turning it in his fingers as he asked, “Is this from Derek?”

“Yeah,” Stiles muttered.

“The doctors say he’s getting better,” Mason said hopefully.

“Maybe,” Stiles uttered under his breath. “But he’s different.”

Mason looked at the ring, his eyes darkening as they filled with pain and sorrow. He was quiet for a moment, just looking at the ring as he whispered, “They messed us up pretty good, didn’t they?”


	21. Chapter 21

Stiles winced slightly as Melissa wound the large bandage around his severely-bruised ribs, compressing the purple-blotched skin and holding his ribs in place.

The armour had taken most of the damage – which Stiles was eternally grateful to Deaton for – but one of the bullets had gone through his lower abdomen, narrowly missing his organs, and the other two had left some damage to his ribs, leaving him bruised and in pain.

“We showed Derek the footage of your speech in Two and he had a memory – a real memory – of you,” Peter told Stiles, lingering in the doorway while Melissa tended to Stiles’ wounds.

“That doesn’t mean I’m going in there,” Stiles objected, his voice a low growl.

“He’s tied down,” Peter pointed out. “He can’t hurt you.”

“No, Peter,” Stiles replied. “It doesn’t matter whether he’s tied down or not; I don’t want to do this.”

Peter levelled his gave with the boy, his cold blue eyes almost pleading Stiles as he said firmly, “It doesn’t matter what you want. This isn’t about you; this is about Derek.”

Stiles bowed his head, a heavy blanket of silence falling over them.

Stiles looked up through his lashes at Peter, noticing the pain and torment that wore down his face. Derek was the last piece of family he had and he wasn’t ready to give up on his nephew. He was desperate to keep the boy in his family.

Peter met Stiles’ gaze, his voice low and soft as he said, “It’s worth trying.”

 

There was a loud buzzer and a flurry of clicking as the large door opened and Stiles was ushered into the room.

Derek turned his head to look at him.

A bit of colour had returned to his olive skin, but he still looked ghostly in the glaring white room. His eyes had brightened as he slowly pieced himself back together but they were still darkened by the heavy, sleepless bags beneath his eyes.

“I thought you died,” Derek muttered.

“You look terrible,” Stiles said, the words slipping past his lips before he could stop them.

“That’s not very nice,” Derek scolded him. “I would have thought you of all people would know what I’ve been through.”

“That’s not what I meant… I’m not very good at this. You were the nice one,” Stiles pointed out. “You’re the one that everyone liked.”

“No, you were the golden boy,” Derek argued, shaking his head.

There was a moment of quiet.

Derek laid still on the hospital bed, his hands held down with thick leather cuffs that were chained to the sides of the bed.

Stiles began to feel himself relax. He took a step further into the room, standing at the foot of Derek’s bed. Now closer, he could see that Derek’s arms and ankles had been rubbed red-raw; the stiff leather bands had chaffed and torn at his skin while he had been thrashing about in them.

Derek noticed where the boy’s eyes lingered and muttered, “They think I’m a monster. They think I’m going to try and kill you.”

“You did before,” Stiles pointed out, absentmindedly swallowing hard and rubbing at his throat.

“Now that I think about it, if I were going to kill you, I’d make do it in a way that was more painful and prolonged than choking you out and more subtly so I don’t get smacked over the head by Scott,” Derek muttered.

“And for a moment there, I considered undoing the cuffs,” Stiles replied coldly.

Derek glared at him. “Why would you do that? Do you want me to fight you? Do you want me to kill you?”

“I’ve considered it,” Stiles admitted before adding, “For a moment, I thought you were starting to be yourself again, I thought you were back to being your old self.”

“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

Stiles frowned in confusion. “Why would that be a bad thing?”

Derek didn’t answer, instead he asked, “What made you think I was ‘back to being my old self’?”

“Peter said you remembered something,” Stiles prompted.

Derek looked Stiles in the eye and said, “I did. I saw you die and I remembered something… the pack. I remember, in the first arena, I made a plan with Erica and Boyd to keep you alive. I remember watching them die and all because I needed to get you a pack.”

Stiles swallowed hard.

“That pack was the only thing that kept me alive those first few days,” Stiles admitted.

“Until you ran into Kali and the tracker jackers,” Derek muttered, his gaze dropping away in thought. “I remember that too.”

He looked back up at Stiles, squinting slightly with confusion as he asked, “Why would I risk everything to get you that pack? Why would I take a beating like that from Kali for you?”

“Because you were kind and caring and you trusted Allison enough to ally yourself with her,” Stiles replied.

“You’re not Allison,” Derek growled.

“I know,” Stiles said, defeated. “Believe me, I’m nothing compared to her.”

“So why did I help _you_?” Derek asked.

“Because there was a time when you loved me, at least that’s what people said,” Stiles answered.

“Did they say you loved me?”

Stiles swallowed hard, his heart pounding against his ribs as he rasped, “I said I did... I did love you. That’s why Deucalion tortured you: to hurt me.”

“Deucalion says that everything that comes out of your mouth is a lie,” Derek growled defensively. “All I know is that I would have saved myself all that suffering if I had just told Erica and Boyd to leave you to die.”

Hot tears welled up in Stiles’ eyes. He held his breath and blinked them back.

Stiles swallowed hard and dropped his gaze, looking down at his hand. He slowly spun the worn-down silver ring around his finger. He noticed that Derek’s gaze lingered on the gleaming metal, his pale eyes glittering with a hint of recognition.

“The man I loved once gave me this,” Stiles explained. “He made a promise to me days before we went into the arena… He promised we’d always be together, but we were forced to separate in the final minutes of the Games and… and I lost him.”

He paused, his heart aching as he stared at the reflected image of his weary face in the gleaming metal. “He promised me that we’d be together, that he’d love me always… ‘till death do us part…”

His voice trailed off as he pulled the ring off his slender finger and set it down on the metal tray beside Derek’s bed. The quiet tinkle of metal sounded like a heavy thud, ringing in Stiles’ chest like canon fire as he began to back away.

He turned slightly, heading towards the door before he paused and muttered, “I guess we did.”


	22. Chapter 22

Rafe drew in a deep breath, his tone placid and diplomatic as he said, “I think the only thing left to say is ‘thank you’. Stiles, you have unified the Districts and you have done your duty to the cause, thanks to you we have a chance to take back Beacon Hills and free everyone from the cruelty and poverty Deucalion has thrust upon us.”

“Send me to the Capitol,” Stiles demanded, his voice cold and firm as he stared at Rafe.

“No,” Rafael said softly. “You’ve done your part, what you need to do now is rest and heal.”

“The last anyone saw of me, I was lying on the ground with three bullets in my chest,” Stiles argued.

“Dead or alive, the rebellion will go on. If you’re alive, you’re the spark. If you’re dead, you’re a martyr,” Rafe explained. “We’re going to film some more propaganda clips here in Thirteen, but you need to give yourself time to recover.”

“I need to be with the troops,” Stiles replied. “This is as much my war as anyone else’s.”

“As far as the rebels know you survived a bullet to the heart, they’ll understand why you’re not with them. But when we receive surrender from the Capitol and come out victorious, we will need you for the ceremony. You’re very valuable to us.”

“Is that a fancy way of saying I’m the poster boy?” Stiles growled.

“Stiles, you’re not a soldier,” Rafe said firmly. “You’re not in the Games anymore, this is a real war.”

“It’s _my_ war,” Stiles shouted.

“This fight is about more than getting revenge for what they did to Derek,” Rafe said dryly.

“This _is_ about what they did to Derek,” Stiles retorted. “It’s about what those bastards have done to Derek and Allison, Boyd and Erica, Mason and Corey, Meredith and the Mute, Hayden and Geyer, Marin and Marie-Jeanne, Lori and Brett, and every other innocent child that was sent into the Games for the amusement of the Capitol! This is about more than you and your pathetic agenda, Rafe!”

“You’re not alone in this,” Peter said softly, stepping forward and resting his hand on Stiles’ shoulder. “But running into the front lines isn’t the best idea. What if Derek gets his memory back and then he finds out he lost you.”

“That’s the thing, he won’t,” Stiles rasped, feeling the lump in his throat grow larger and heavier as he looked up at the man. “Despite what everyone says, he’s not making any progress. He won’t get his memory back; he won’t remember me; he won’t get better. He will never be Derek again, at least not the Derek we knew.”

“So you’ve given up?” Peter asked.

“No, I just see how bloody useless it is to keep trying!” Stiles cried. He shoved Peter’s hand off his shoulder and stepped back from the man. “Everyone keeps telling me that it’s going to be okay when it’s not. Everyone keeps telling me who I am and what I should so and I’m sick of it!”

Stiles turned and glared at Rafe, watching the man squirm beneath his gaze as he said. “You wanted me to be part of this war, you wanted me to encourage the rebels and now you don’t want me to help. You need to make up your mind! Because I’m either in it or I’m not.”

Stiles spun around and narrowed his gaze on Peter.

The man flinched and stepped back slightly, scared that Stiles would lash out.

“And you!” Stiles shouted. “You need to stop using Derek as a reason to bend and use me. If you’re so worried about your nephew, why don’t you go and see him yourself? Why don’t you do something to help him? Why don’t you sit with him and help him get his memories back instead of putting other people in the room, standing behind the Perspex and pretending to be the victim.”

Stiles looked between the two men and growled, “I joined this war because I was sick of being a piece in Deucalion’s twisted games. I didn’t join up to be a piece in your games.”

Before the men had a chance to speak, Stiles spun around and stormed out of the door.

 

The buzzer sounded and the latches pulled back in a flurry of clicks as the door opened and Melissa stepped into the confined space.

“Hello, sweetie, how do you feel today?” she asked as she stepped over to Derek’s bedside and set the try she was carrying down on the near table.

“I’m tired,” Derek admitted.

“Can’t sleep?” Melissa asked.

“Not without nightmares,” Derek replied. After a moment, he sighed heavily and confessed, “I don’t feel like I’m getting any better.”

“You are,” Melissa assured him.

“But I can’t even think straight. It’s like there’s someone in my head, messing with my thoughts and memories… How do I know what’s real? How do I know who I am?”

“I’m going to give you the same advice I gave John years ago,” Melissa said softly as she sat down on the edge of the mattress. “Find your own anchor, something meaningful to you. Bind yourself to it and use it to keep yourself – your proper self, the real you – in control.”

“I don’t know,” Derek rasped. His eyes drifted to the ring that sat on the bedside table, obscured slightly by the lip of the tray Melissa had brought in. “Stiles would be my first choice, but if my mind slips then I wouldn’t be able to think of him as an anchor, only as a threat.”

“Then be your own anchor,” Melissa suggested. “Until you find something, be your own anchor and trust yourself to know who you really are.”

“You really think I can recover from this, don’t you?” Derek asked.

“I know you can,” Melissa said softly, unfastening the leather straps around his wrists and checking the bright red flesh before reaching over to the tray and handing Derek a bowl of food and a spoon. “Isaac did.”

Derek shoved a spoonful of the gluggy oats into his mouth and looked at her inquisitively.

“We could never say for certain, but there were rumours around Twelve that Isaac’s father would abuse him,” Melissa explained. “Some said that his father would lock him in a box or try and drown him. Isaac’s older brother, Camden, was applying for a mortgage on a house so that he could get Isaac away from his father, but he died in the mines the day it was accepted. Isaac was homeless and scavenging for scraps when the boys found him in the kitchen and took him in.”

Derek smiled at the thought.

“Isaac was terrified, scared that we were going to hurt him the way his father had. For months, he would hide in small spaces – in the cupboards, under the bed, in hollows under tree roots – and he’d cry himself to sleep. We would worry ourselves sick when we couldn’t find him, but never once did we yell at him or punish him,” Melissa whispered. “That’s why he hides in the vents here, the small spaces gives him time to think and a place to cry where no-one can see him.”

Melissa thought for a moment remembering how they lived years ago.

“Stiles moved into a room with his dad and Scott and Isaac shared a room, but the first night Isaac slept in our house he had a nightmare and hid under his bed,” Melissa told him. “Scott tried for hours to coax him out of his hiding place but finally gave up and passed him his pillow and a blanket. Then Scott got his own blanket and pillow and slept down on the floor with Isaac so he didn’t feel alone. The next morning, I went to wake them and found the two of them curled up together on the floor… It took a while, but he warmed up to us and accepted us as his family.”

She bowed her head, quiet for a moment before she continued, “While he didn’t come out of it unscathed, he’s still growing and healing. He’s got a family and he’s loved. And even though it takes time, he’s getting better. And you can do it too.”

“Melissa,” Derek said softly. “Can you pass me that ring on the table?”

Melissa nodded, pushing aside the tray slightly and picking up the ring. She passed it to Derek, setting it down in the palm of his hand.

Derek slid the ring onto his finger, spinning it slightly before leaving it to sit there as if it had always been there.

“Is that your engagement ring?” Melissa asked, glancing down at the silver band on his finger.

Derek nodded and whispered, “It’s my small space.”

Melissa smiled sweetly.

Derek finished eating the bowlful of slop and set it back down on the tray for Melissa. He settled back against the pillows and offered his hands up to be secured back into the restraints.

“If I leave them off, can I trust you not to do anything while I go and get some cream and bandages for the chaffing?” Melissa asked.

Derek seemed stunned, taking a moment to process the fact that she trusted him before nodding.

“Okay,” Melissa whispered before rising to her feet and collecting the tray. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

The buzzer above the door sounded and the locks pulled back, the door opening to let Melissa out.

She set the tray aside and stepped into the small observation room where Scott and Stiles stood behind the door and watched.

“He’s calmed down and he’s regaining consciousness. He’s thinking like himself and he’s not lashing out at anyone,” Scott pointed out. “That’s progress.”

Stiles hummed but didn’t reply, his eyes still focused on Derek and watching as the older boy lay still on the bed like he promised Melissa he would.

“Stiles,” Melissa whispered, gaining the boy’s attention. “Derek’s getting better. He’s going to be okay.”


	23. Chapter 23

The garden on the lower levels of the bunker was full of blossoming flowers, the thick bushes of crisp white and velvety roses, clusters of pale lavender and blue lilies, bouquets of lilies of the valley, and vines of draping flowers that were coiled around the railings. The flowerboxes had been arranged in tiered rows that formed an amphitheatre, looking down at the couple that stood at the bottom level, holding hands and gazing lovingly into each other’s eyes.

They were both dressed in neat grey suits – made from jumpsuits that were altered by Melissa and Lydia to look classy and eloquent. Their shirts were made of the white fabric of scrubs from the medical bay and were tailored to fit the two slender boys. Atop of the shirts sat the matching rings of silver and black that Stiles had given Mason – they hadn’t taken then off since Mason gave one to Corey. A small cluster of blue and white flowers were pinned to their lapels.

When they spoke, their voices were soft, as if they were talking to each other rather than into the microphones on their lapels.

“I, Corey Bryant, take you, Mason Hewitt, to be my husband from this day forth. Together or apart, we will always be united. One life, one love, one destiny. I am yours, my heart and my soul, and I will love you until the day I die.”

Corey slid the small golden ring onto Mason’s finger, his hand lingering there for a second as he gently brushed his thumb across the boy’s finger.

Mason smiled and blushed, biting his lip slightly as he replied, “I, Mason Hewitt, take you, Corey Bryant, to be my husband – my one and only – from this day forth. In sickness and in health, I promise to be by your side and to love you until the day I die.”

Mason took Corey’s hand in his own and slid a matching silver ring onto Corey’s finger.

There was a moment of quiet before Rafael – standing before them as the minister – finished his spiel about how ‘with the power vested in him’ he pronounced them married, pausing for a moment before finally saying, “You may kiss.”

The crowd erupted in joyous applause as Corey leant forward, cupped Mason’s cheek and brought his lips to Mason’s in a tender, loving kiss.

Stiles couldn’t help but smile, his heart aching in his chest with a jaded mix of pride and envy as he joined in with the applause.

Earlier that day, Corey had come racing into his room – catching Stiles in the middle of getting dressed and, thankfully, in a decent state – to tell him they were getting married; he wanted Stiles to be the first person they told. It wasn’t shocking, but Stiles had been stunned by the news. He had asked Corey and Mason if they thought they were rushing it, but both of them had said the same thing, “I’m scared to lose him. This might be my only chance to show that I love him.” And, standing there now, he knew there was no mistaking it; this was meant to be. They loved each other and they were happy, and that was all that mattered.

The wedding ceremony was concluded with a festive party full of dancing and music; everything that Corey and Mason could have ever wished for.

Stiles stood back from everything, remaining at the top of the stairs and watching on with twisted emotions. It wasn’t long before Peter singled him out and crossed the room to join him.

“You went to see Derek, didn’t you?” Peter asked.

Stiles didn’t reply.

“Did you tell him I said hello?” Peter pushed, prying for a response.

“Tell him yourself,” Stiles growled.

“He thought I abandoned him when I moved to Twelve after the fire, why would he trust me after I left him in the arena?” Peter inquired, looking at Stiles and raising his brow quizzically.

Stiles didn’t answer.

Peter was right, why should Derek trust him?

The boy’s gaze didn’t let his gaze wander from the dancers, watching as Melissa and Isaac joined in with the group. They were smiling and laughing, having the time of their lives.

“I’m going to kill Deucalion,” Stiles said bluntly.

Peter flinched, stunned by the boy’s words.

“Nothing good is safe while he’s alive and I can’t make another speech about it,” Stiles explained. “No more cameras, no more propaganda, no more games. He needs to see my eyes when I kill him.”

“Now you’re talking,” Peter said with pride, a wicked smile brightening his face. “But how the hell are you going to do that, kid?”

“I’ll find a way to the Capitol when everyone is looking the other way,” Stiles replied.

Peter sighed, glancing around before speaking in a low whisper, “They’re shipping medical supplies to the front lines in hangar two at midnight. Scott left with the earlier load this morning. I was going to sneak on board and join the fight but I guess I could stay here and cover for you.”

Stiles turned and looked at the man, his brow furrowed in confusion as he tried to work out why Peter was helping him.

“Anybody can kill anybody, Stiles,” Peter said firmly. “Even the President. You just have to be willing to sacrifice yourself.”

“I’ve given everything I am to this war,” Stiles replied. “I’ve given up everything and lost so much that I’m not that innocent little naïve boy that stepped onto the Tribute Train two years ago.”

Peter nodded.

A blanket of quiet fell over the two of them as they watched the celebrations unfold.

After a moment, Peter gently patted Stiles’ shoulder and said, “Go on.”

Stiles turned to look at his mentor, noticing the man’s coy smile as he added, “Don’t you want Deucalion to see you dance?”

Stiles smirked, burying his hands in his pockets and making his way down the stairs towards the dancers.

Melissa spun around, her dark curls bouncing off her shoulders as she stepped out of the circle and moved over to Stiles’ side.

“I need to catch my breath,” she panted, gently patting Stiles’ shoulder and making her way up through the pews.

Stiles chuckled and stepped into her place. He took a hold of Isaac’s hands and continuing to dance with the young boy, spinning him around before joining in with the jig. He looped his arm through Isaac’s, spinning him around and around and watching as the boy’s face lit up with a bright smile and the sweet sound of laughter erupted from his lips.

Stiles felt his file fall from his face, the music dying away to silence as he slowed to a stop and pulled Isaac into his arms. He held the boy close, scared to let him go.

All of this started because Stiles wanted to protect his family and save his brother, and – for the same reason – he was going to end it.

 

District Thirteen was silent at night, very few people moving about while on night duty or wandering the halls sleeplessly.

Stiles made his way up to the higher levels of the bunker, stepping into the hangars full of supplies, dressed entirely in the armour suit Deaton had designed and Lydia had repaired and hugging Derek’s leather jacket tight around his shoulders. The dark leather helped him blend into the shadows and remain unseen by the patrolling guards and workers as he wove his way through the stacks of munitions, rations and medical supplies and made his way towards hangar two.

He peered out from behind a crate as two men loaded the ship with cargo and secured it. They climbed off the ship, quietly talking to each other as they pressed the button for the ramp to rise and close the ship.

While their backs were turned, Stiles sprinted across the room, unnoticed as he scurried onto the ship and hid behind one of the large crates full of medical supplies.

The ramp rose and locked into place, immersing the hull of the ship in darkness.

The engines began to hum and whir, growing to an intense rumble as the ship jostled and shook slightly and took off.

Stiles drew in a deep breath, his body trembling as he leant back against the wall of the ship and shut his eyes. Fatigue dragged him into the darkness. When he opened his eyes again, the ship had begun its descent into District Two, rocking slightly as it lowered onto solid ground.

Stiles rose to his feet and pulled up his hood, hiding his face as he waited by the door. He held onto the overhead straps and wove his way towards the exit ramp, waiting for the door to descend.

The pistons whirred as the ramp lowered and the ship opened.

Stiles bowed his head and descended the ramp into District Two before the ships’ crew noticed the stowaway. He made his way through the clusters of people, keeping his head down as he marched towards the Justice building.

He glanced out the corner of his eye, noticing that clusters of people began to blend together and formed a gathering crowd that encircled him. They had turned their heads to look at him. He heard the quiet whispers and hushed voices as everyone talked among themselves

They stepped forward, slowly surrounding Stiles.

The boy glanced up, looking at their faces.

One by one, they raised their hands to their lips, pressing three fingers to their lips before raising their arms into the air, a familiar gesture: the funeral salute of District Twelve.


	24. Chapter 24

The commander of District Two’s armed forces stepped forward on the assembled stage and began their address to the gathered crowd, “For the first time in a long time we stand together, unified, with all thirteen Districts. And from what I see here, we’ve already made history.”

The crowd cheered, the roaring applause lasting for a while.

Scott stood beside Stiles, clapping slowly and watching his friend with a worried gaze.

After a minute, the clapping died down and the commander continued, “We are facing and enemy who will never change. _We_ need to make that change. President Deucalion is pulling back the peacekeepers to fortify the centre of the District and he’s evacuating the outskirts of the Capitol. Billions will be confused and desperate. You are under order not to target them; they are not our enemies. We are deploying medical units to assist in the care of wounded soldiers and civilians. We will show Deucalion and the others that we are better than they are. We will show them what we can do.”

The crowd cheered.

The commander nodded, quieting the crowd. The screen behind them lit up with an intricate map of the Capitol streets that was covered in blinking orange dots.

“To slow our advances, Deucalion is setting up a minefield of traps and sadistic devices know as pods,” the commander explained. “They’re creations by the Capitol and it’s Gamemakers to make entertainment of the children and innocents we have sent into the Games and now for the soldiers we send into their city. If our forces can make it past the peacekeepers and the traps, then we will converge on the Presidential Palace where we will not only unlock Deucalion’s gates, but unshackle all of Beacon Hills.”

The crowd roared with applause.

Stiles stood firm, not clapping or cheering. He glared at the map, his eyes rolling over the streets as he planned his way through the streets.

“Stiles,” Scott whispered, almost warningly.

But before he had the chance to continue, the commander spoke again, “If we die, let it be for a cause and not for a spectacle. If we survive, let it be for all of Beacon Hills, and forever. Yes, we’ve already made history, but our future… our future we make at dawn, when we march into the Capitol.”

The crowd erupted in applause, the soldiers form different Districts cheering in their own ways: thundering applause, a crescendo of howling and barbaric war chants. Despite the thundering applause, the world fell silent.

Scott stopped clapping and looked at Stiles. He said something but Stiles couldn’t hear it; his eyes were focused on his end goal: the Presidential Palace.

Under his breath, he muttered, “This ends now.”

 

Stiles picked up another packet of rations and shoved it into his backpack, the plastic packs in his bag scraping at his hands as he wedged it into place.

“Squad 541?” a familiar voice called as they stepped over to Stiles’ side.

Stiles ignored them, continuing to pack his bag.

“Looks like you’ve got your meals covered.”

Stiles looked up at Scott. “I like to be prepared.”

“Don’t lie to me,” Scott scolded. “We’ve known each other our whole lives and I know when you’re planning to run or to go off hunting on your own.”

Stiles bowed his head, shoving another dry-sealed packet into the bag.

“So, are you going to leave me behind too?” Scott asked.

“As a fellow soldier, I suggest you stay with your unit,” Stiles said bluntly. “But I couldn’t stop you if you wanted to come.”

“I’m not letting you do this alone,” Scott told him.

“Fine,” Stiles muttered. “But you should know now: I’m going to kill Deucalion.”

Scott opened his mouth to say something when woman called to them from across the small camp set up, “McCall, Stilinski, I want to introduce you to your new team.”

Stiles rose to his feet, following Scott over to the small gathering of people.

The woman who had called them over had a stern face. Her hair was dark, the brown faded into sun-bleached strips of copper that, matched with her sharp jade eyes, made the resemblance clear. Stiles didn’t need her to introduce himself; he knew who she was. Lorraine Martin, Lydia’s mother.

“I’m Commander Lorraine,” she introduced herself before turning to the rest of the squad. “This is Lieutenant Mitchell, the best sharp shooter in Beacon Hills, the Leek sisters – first division – and this is Corporal Holmes.”

Stiles nodded curtly to each of them, his eyes drifting over their shoulders as something across the open area caught his attention, an approaching figure: a large built man with a pack slung over one shoulder and a heavy axe in his hand.

“Mute?” Stiles called, stepping away from the group and running to his friend’s side.

The Mute stood still, arms open and welcoming Stiles into his embrace.

“Are you coming with us?” Stiles asked, straightening up and signing his words as he spoke.

The Mute nodded and replied, ‘Looks like it.’

Stiles’ gaze drifted to the other approaching figure, a smaller boy who carried a sword and a pack.

“Corey?” Stiles said, shocked.

The boy looked up and smiled.

“That was a short honeymoon,” Stiles teased, pulling Corey into his arms.

Corey chuckled, returning the hug as he said, “Yeah, well, Mason and I can have one in the Capitol when this is all over.”

Trailing behind the two newcomers were Araya, Severo, and the film crew, nodding politely to Stiles as they returned to the small canopy and joined the squad.

Scott joined them, saying hello to everyone before Lorraine interrupted and instructed, “Gather around.”

“Let me make this painstakingly clear from the get-go,” Araya started. “I am in charge of this unit, Lorraine is my second-in-charge, and we are strict non-combat unit. We will be following a day or two behind the troops in the front line.”

“Then what’s the point of us being here,” Stiles growled, fighting back his anger.

“You will be the faces of the war. The onscreen heroes,” Araya explained.

Stiles bit the inside of his lip hard enough to draw blood, the bitter copper taste seeping into his mouth. He turned away, his jaw locked as he breathed through his gritted teeth. He locked his fierce glare on the toes of his boots as he tried to subdue his rising rage.

“You were hand-picked to intimidate their forces and encourage surrenders,” Araya continued, addressing both the victors and the soldiers in their unit. “Even though we are miles behind the front lines, I guarantee that wherever they put us, it will not be safe. This is an active war zone and wherever we go it is likely that we will encounter active pods and peacekeepers.”

Araya paused for a moment, reached into her pocket, and drew out a small stack of penny-size containers. She handed them out to each member of the team as she explained, “You’re considered high-value targets. You will each be given a wolfsbane pill that you are to take when captured.”

Stiles flinched at the word ‘wolfsbane’, remembering the little girl with the brightest smile and the most painful tears. He turned the container over in his hand, watching as the small pill rattled about inside. The plastic coating of the purple pill glistened slightly as it caught the light.

“It doesn’t seem like much,” Corey muttered. “Are you sure this is enough to kill us?”

“It’s aconite,” Stiles replied before Araya could. “It’s deadly to humans. Lethal in any concentration. It induces vomiting, a burning sensation, and a numbness that spreads throughout the body until, finally, the organs give out and the person dies. A concentration as high as this would kill within minutes.”

Everyone was silent for a moment.

Stiles turned the container about, remembering the weight of the body in his hand and how the stars above them that night glistened like the container. He remembered how heartbreaking it was to hold that child in his arms and cry over her cold, dead body. He remembered how he laid her among the soft cushion of moss and laid a bunch of luminescent fungus and flowers beneath her hands. It wasn’t much – he wished he could have done so much more.

“Kira,” Scott muttered, voicing Stiles’ thoughts.

Stiles felt his eyes burn with tears of rage as he coiled his hand around the container and looked up.

“How do I get to the Presidential Palace?” Stiles asked boldly.

Araya glanced up at the boy for a moment, her sharp gaze looking straight through him.

Stiles knew that she knew what he was thinking; she knew what he had planned.

“The streets are lined with traps,” Araya continued, ignoring Stiles’ question. “We have a holo, a digital map of all the streets and every known pod. These pods can trigger anything from bombs, to traps, to mutts. We cannot move without this map. That being said, there’s a chance it’s not complete: there could be new pods that we are not aware of so stay alert and mind your surroundings. We don’t want the Gamemakers to know we have this information, so if captured, flip this switch, say “wolfsbane” three times and it blow everything in a ten mile radius.”

Araya looked at them firmly, annunciating her words as she said, “Stay with your unit at all times. These pods, whatever they contain, they are designed to kill you.”

Corey leant in closer to Stiles’ side, his words rattling through Stiles’ hollow chest like canon fire as he whispered, “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the seventy-sixth Hunger Games.”


	25. Chapter 25

The outskirts of the Capitol had been reduced to rubble; everything was dull, grey and lifeless. The once-wondrous streets were covered in ash, the colourful banners torn from the lamp posts and the plants were shrivelled, burnt and dead. There was no sign of life, only the sound their own footsteps as they cautiously moved through the streets and the sound of gunfire and shelling around the border of the Capitol or further into the streets.

Araya kept her eyes trained on the holo, watching the screen intently and stopping to scan every few meters in order to insure there were no pods nearby.

“I’ve never seen this place so empty,” Corey mused, walking alongside Stiles. “It’s like a ghost town.”

Stiles didn’t argue; the ruins of the once-great city were unsettling.

“Keep your eyes open,” Araya instructed as they continued to make their way through the streets.

They walked on in silence, their nerves on edge and hypervigilance leaving their heart drumming against their chest painfully as their eyes darted about the windows of nearby buildings, checking for any signs of undiscovered pods.

Their heavy boots disturbed the blankets of ash, stirring up clouds and leaving tracks in the soft soot.

The holo chirped, making everyone flinch.

Araya froze.

She signalled for the group to stop and began to search the area for confirmation of where the pods were.

“Two pods, one in each building either side of the street,” Araya announced, pointing to the buildings she was talking about.

Severo made quick work of getting Stiles in place and setting up the camera crew to film the cinematic shot.

Stiles sighed and went along with it, drawing an ordinary arrow from his quiver and notching it. He pulled the string taut and aimed for the centre of the large modernistic statue – sculpted to look like two arcing waves about to crash into one another – that stood in the middle of the street. On the signal, he let it fly, watching as it soared through the space and triggered the motion sensors.

The pods activated, filling the street with a raging inferno.

The wall of fire rolled towards them like a tidal wave.

Stiles stood still, feeling the heat prickle his skin as it drew closer.

The fire struck an unseen barrier and rolled back on itself a wave crashing against the rocky crags of a cliff before it finally dissipated, revealing the charred remains of the street the inferno had destroyed.

There was a moment of quiet before a loud explosion split the air, making them all flinch as the fuel tank of a Jeep parked down the street ignited. The car was hurled across the way, hitting the ground with a loud crash and the painful, screeching sound of buckling metal scraping across the concrete.

The quiet returned.

Araya stepped forward, drawing out the holo and scanning the area. The sonar beeped and whirred like a sonar but fell silent. “All clear.”

The Mute stepped up to Stiles’ side. ‘You look disappointed.’

‘This is a war,’ Stiles replied, signing his word rather than saying them out loud. ‘I should be fighting, not playing poster boy.’

The Mute gently patted the boy’s shoulder and walked on, following Araya into the incinerated street while Severo and the others trailed behind.

Scott made his way up to Stiles’ side, slinging his arm around his friend’s shoulder as they walked on.

 

They found shelter in what used to be an old store; the windows blown in and the merchandise either raided or incinerated. They brushed aside the shattered shards of glass that covered the benches and alcoves and found seats among the space.

Scott had encouraged Stiles to at least attempt to eat something. Stiles sat with him, pulling pieces of jerky out of the air-tight packet and gnawing at them. The fact that he was trying seemed to be enough to put Scott at ease as the older boy sat beside him in silence, only occasionally looking at him with a worried glance.

Stiles couldn’t care less; his eyes were focused on the holo, watching as Araya and Lorraine radioed in with the other troops, updated the holo and reported on the squad’s condition.

“We’re not going to get away,” Stiles muttered under his breath. “We can’t make it through that minefield without that holo.”

“There’s no way Araya’s going to give it up,” Scott replied, snatching a strip of jerky from the packet in his friend’s hand.

“We’ll find another way,” Stiles said defiantly.

They were interrupted by a low rumble of an engine as a vehicle began to approach their hiding spot.

“Is that peacekeepers?” Corey asked, fear filling his voice as he reached for his weapon.

Lorraine glanced out the window, eyeing the approaching vehicle as she radioed in, “Squad 451 to base, we’ve got a truck coming in, over.”

Stiles handed Scott the packet of jerky and picked up his compact staff. He flicked it open with one swift motion and began to creep towards the door, staying low as he slunk out into the streets.

“Stand down everyone,” Lorrain called from inside the shop. “It’s friendly.”

Stiles folded away the staff and latched it onto his belt as he stepped out onto the street and met the incoming Jeep.

It pulled to a halt and two armed soldiers got out, moving towards the back and escorting out two figures: Chris and Peter.

“What are you two doing here?” Stiles called.

“We’re the armed escort,” Chris replied.

Stiles opened his mouth, about to ask who for, when he saw a third figure emerge from the back of the Jeep.

Derek.

Stiles instinctively tightened his grip on his staff.

Derek stepped forward, his eyes focused on the ground and his chapped lips quivering around quiet, unheard words. He was dressed in a suit of black armour – District Thirteen regulated – and he was unarmed, not that that mattered; Stiles knew what he could do with his bare hands regardless of whether or not they were restrained.

He seemed to take a step too far as Chris flinched and held his hand out, gently tapping Derek’s arm and whispering to Derek, telling him to stop.

“Easy,” Araya said softly as she stepped up to Stiles’ side. She laid her hand on his, encouraging him to lower his weapon as she stepped forward and stood before Derek. She lifted the cuffs that she held onto and showed them to Derek.

“These are just a precaution,” she explained, her voice soft and comforting. “Just until we get everything straightened out, okay?”

Derek nodded, slowly reaching forward and offering her his trembling, chaffed hands.

Stiles retracted his staff and put it away again, watching as Derek’s lips continued to move around quiet words, a mantra.

In the moments of silence between the ongoing sound of gunfire, Stiles heard the words that Derek quietly muttered – those words that were slightly different but all too familiar to him – “My name is Derek Hale. I’m from District Twelve.”


	26. Chapter 26

“We can’t keep moving, not with him; he’s not stable,” Lorraine announced, glancing over her shoulder at Derek.

“We can move a few blocks tomorrow,” Severo said quietly. “We’ll shoot some more footage and show the Capitol that he’s on our side.”

“While he is recovering, he still needs to be supervised. We need someone to keep an eye on him at all times and be ready for the worst,” Araya instructed.

“I’ll do it,” Stiles offered.

Everyone spun around, looking at him with shock.

“Stiles,” Peter said warningly.

“I’ll do it,” Stiles repeated.

“If it comes down to it, could you take him out?” Lorraine asked.

Stiles nodded, his expression firm as he said, “I wouldn’t be shooting Derek, I’d be killing a Capitol mutt.”

“That doesn’t quite give you a ringing endorsement, soldier,” Lorraine replied, her voice a low growl as she stared Stiles down.

“Stiles,” Araya called, breaking the tension. “With me.”

Araya led the way outside, Stiles following her out into the fresh air. Her eyes were focused on the surrounding buildings.

“He’s going to try to kill me,” Stiles pointed out, rushing over to Araya’s side. “With all this going on – the artillery and gunfire, the pods – it’s only a matter of time before it sets him off and he snaps.”

“We’ll keep him contained,” Araya assured him.

“Why would Rafael do this?” Stiles asked. “Does he want me dead? Is that it?”

“Here’s all I know: it was Derek you wanted rescued from the arena, it was you who demanded we save him from the Capitol, and it’s you that Rafe doesn’t like; he doesn’t like anybody, but he especially doesn’t like you because he knows there’s no way he could ever control you.”

“So he’d purposefully put my life in danger?” Stiles squawked. “He would kill me because he can’t control me, just like the Capitol?”

“I don’t know,” Araya said lowly. “I don’t think he would, but – when this is all over – he’s planning to run a fair election where everyone gets to vote for who the next leader of the liberated Beacon Hills will be. You inspire so many people, you’ve united the Districts and won over everyone, and because of that he’ll see you as a threat.”

“Nobody would think I’d be a leader,” Stiles dismissed.

“But would you vote for Rafael?” Araya asked.

Stiles didn’t answer.

“If your immediate answer isn’t ‘yes’ then he will consider you a threat,” Araya replied. “These propaganda clips can be filmed with or without you. You’ve done a lot to stoke the fire of this rebellion; you’ve riled up the troops and unified the Districts, but now there’s only one way to fuel the fire of this rebellion.”

“If I die,” Stiles muttered, hanging his head.

“That’s not going to happen on my watch, Stiles,” Araya assured him. “I plan for you to live a long and happy life.”

Stiles looked up at her, shocked, as he asked, “Why? You don’t owe me anything.”

She met his gaze, her eyes full of sympathy and pain as he she said quietly, “Because you’ve earnt it.”


	27. Chapter 27

It was dark, the shadows creeping towards them like nightmarish figures that were kept at bay only by the dull glow of the lamp light. Everyone was asleep, curled up in crevices and alcoves or slouched back against the walls with their heads bowed.

Stiles sat among the darkness, unable to close his eyes; his hypervigilance kept him alert and his paranoia wouldn’t give in to fatigue.

His eyes were fixed on Derek, watching as the older boy shifted slightly in his sleep, tossing about and whimpering as his face screwed up into a pained expression.

Lorraine had anchored Derek’s restraints on a nearby pole, holing him in place and insuring that he wouldn’t attack anyone or run away. But even so, Stiles didn’t feel comfortable enough to let his guard down.

Derek bolted upright with a start, gasping for air as he looked around and tried to calm himself. His faded aventurine eyes met Stiles’ gaze.

Stiles glanced away, turning to look at the others.

“We’ve been here before, you know?” Derek said quietly.

“What?” Stiles asked, looking back at Derek.

“That look,” Derek replied. “I’ve seen that look before… You’re trying to decide whether or not you should kill me.”

“I never wanted to kill you,” Stiles said, his voice blunt and cold. “You, however, did and still do.”

“You did want to kill me,” Derek argued. “Once. In the first arena… the seventy-fourth Games.”

“You were a Career, I thought you were trying to kill me,” Stiles pointed out. “And when you didn’t; I only ever saw you as an ally, not an enemy.”

Derek nodded slowly, looking away.

There was a moment of quiet before Derek began to recite, “Career. Friend. Lover. Victor. Fiancé.”

Stiles met his gaze, noticing the rage that was brewing in his eyes as he continued, “Enemy. Target. Mutt. And now _Ally_.”

Stiles swallowed hard.

“It’s an odd list of words and you need to figure out which ones are true,” Derek snapped.

The others woke with a start, Chris and Peter leaping to their feet and readying themselves to fight Derek if they needed to.

“I’m sorry,” Derek said quietly, hanging his head and curling into the shadows like a child cowering in fear. He cringed slightly and shook his head as if he was trying to shake something free. “I’m sorry… I just can’t figure out what’s real anymore.”

“Then ask,” Stiles prompted.

“What?” Derek asked, shocked.

“Ask,” Stiles repeated. “You told me that if ever I got confused about something I could ask and you would answer honestly and the best you could. So, ask.”

“Ask who?”

“Us,” Scott piped up, his voice soft as he looked at Derek with warmth and sympathy. “Ask any of us.”

Derek’s eyes drifted to Stiles. He thought for a moment and rasped, “Your favourite colour is blue, is that real or not real?”

Stiles nodded and replied, “Real. And yours is orange, but not bright orange, a soft one, like the warm glow of a sunset; the last bit of colour before it’s dark.”

Derek nodded thoughtfully and muttered, “Thank you.”

“You like books,” Stiles continued. “You would tell me stories of how you read to your little sister, Cora, when she wouldn’t sleep at night and you taught Isaac to read. You always sleep with the windows open, even when it’s freezing cold outside, because you don’t like the stale air… You never take sugar in your tea. You only ever wear one jacket – the leather one.” He paused, rising to his feet and shrugging off the worn leather jacket. He crossed the small space and laid it down on the bench beside Derek. “You told me you only ever wore that one because it reminds you of the one your dad used to wear. You always double knot your shoe laces, and you’d sing lullabies to Laura when you thought no-one was listening.”

The air was thick with tension as everyone looked at Stiles, stunned expressions lit by the dull glow of the lantern.

Stiles turned swiftly and crossed the room to where Scott was seated. He paused by Lorraine, glancing out the corner of his eye as he said, “You were right, I can’t do this.”

He slumped down next to Scott, leaning back against the wall.

“I guess we’re not leaving anymore,” Scott muttered under his breath, watching as Peter sat down to watch over his nephew.

Stiles watched them for a moment before turning his gaze to Araya and the mechanism strapped to her belt. He let out a heavy sigh and whispered, “Not without that holo.”

 

When morning came, the squad readied themselves to move forward through the streets.

Araya stood in the centre of the room turning about and showing everyone an empty magazine clip.

“No bullets,” Araya said as she loaded the clip into one of the guns and passed it to Derek. “It’s only for the propaganda clips.”

Derek nodded, his hands still restrained as he took the gun and held onto it.

Stiles shrugged his pack and his quiver onto his back, fastening his staff to his belt and tightening his grip on his bow.

Chris, Corey and Peter walked alongside Derek while Scott and the Mute walked behind the group with Stiles.

They wove their way through the fallen buildings and under the tunnels formed by the fallen bridges. They made their way down the streets, pausing every so often so Araya could scan their surroundings for pods.

As they continued on, Chris helped Derek rehearse his lines for the next propaganda clip they were to film.

“Citizens of the Capitol, our war is not with you,” Chris prompted.

Derek repeated it back, “Citizens of the Capitol, our war is not with you.”

“When this war is over, you will be a vital part of democracy,” Chris continued.

Derek nodded slightly and repeated, “When this war is over, you will be a vital part of democracy.”

“You got it,” Corey said cheerfully.

Derek nodded and smiled. “Okay.”

“You’ll do fine, kid,” Peter encouraged.

They rounded the corner and stopped, overlooking the stairs that led down into a plaza. In the centre of the open space was a large archway, the marble carved into smooth ridges that curled into the shapes of vines and feathers and chizzled with fine, ornate details.

“This is a good spot,” Severo announced. “Right down there in the courtyard. We’ll get you set up under the archway.”

“Okay,” Araya agreed. “Hold up here and we’ll clear the area.”

She took a few steps down the flight of stairs, holding the holo out before her and scanning the area.

It buzzed and whirred as she moved forward, then it let out a shrill chirp and Araya stopped. She scanned the area more thoroughly before instructing the others. “We’ve got two pods up ahead, fitted into the pillars. Split up and take cover.”

The others nodded and followed her lead, splitting into two groups and crouching behind the thick structure of the pillars.

“Stay back,” Araya instructed as she picked up a chunk of concrete and hurled it into the space beneath the archway of the pillars.

There was a loud crash as the pods were activated and two large guns burst through the pillars. They open fired on the surrounding area, shell casings chiming as they hit the ground and bullets thundering as they chipped away at the marble.

Stiles cupped his hands over his ears, the deafening sound dulled slightly, but while it was muffled he could still here the rumble in his chest, the hollowness painful and sickening. His knees weakened and collapsed beneath him. He fell to the ground, arching over his shuddering body as the noise grew louder. He curled up against the pillar, trying to remain as small as possible as heavy tears welled in his eyes. His lips trembled, too weak to scream. He squeezed his eyes shut and gritted his teeth.

Among the gunfire, Stiles could hear Scott’s voice as the older boy called to him, but Stiles couldn’t reply.

Then as quickly as it started, it ended.

Everything was still and quiet.

Stiles slowly pulled his hands away from his ears, listening to the quiet tinkling as the empty shells fell among the piles of other spent bullets and fragments of marble and rubble that crumbled away from the pillars.

Stiles shuddered as a weak breath fell from his lips.

“Stiles,” Scott called again. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Stiles dismissed, rising to his shaky legs and slouching back against the pillars. “I’m fine.”

Araya lifted the holo from her belt and scanned the area before calling to the others, “All clear.”

She stepped forward and looked around at the amphitheatre-like plaza.

“Holmes, McCall, take the left. Leek twins, with me,” she instructed. “Split up and survey the area. The rest of you, stay put for a minute.”

Scott nodded and stepped away from Stiles. He made his way over to Corporal Holmes’ side and stepped around the far side of pillar, gun at the ready.

Stiles looked across at Derek.

The older boy was still crouched on the ground. His white knuckles stood out against his thin skin as he tightened his grip on the gun in his hands. His face was pale and his usually-golden skin looked clammy and flushed. His lips quivered as he muttered something over and over again. He pressed his temple to the butt of the gun, pushing it up against the wall. He began to hump his head, wincing in pain as he did.

Stiles felt his heart ache.

He wanted to go over there. He wanted to help. He wanted to comfort Derek and let him know that he’d be okay but he couldn’t, not when Derek was like that.

Stiles drew in a deep breath and took a cautious step forward.

There was a loud explosion, the shockwave knocking Stiles off balance.

His gut twisted and bile rose into his throat. He scrambled back to his feet, eyes wide with panic as he screamed, “Scott!”

He looked across the way, his eyes falling on Scott as the boy crouched over Araya.

The nauseating bitter, metallic stench of hot blood filled his nose, making gut lurch and bile rise into his throat as it took him a moment to realise what he was seeing.

“Araya,” he rasped.

He stumbled forward slightly before picking up his heels and sprinting across the plaza.

Scott was already making quick work of strapping bandages across the bloody stumps of her obliterated legs. His hands shook slightly but his composure was solid as he tried to stop the bleeding.

Severo stood on the far side of the plaza, holding his head in his hands as he blinking the world back into focus and screamed his sister’s name. He leapt to his feet and tried to make his way towards them.

Araya lay still on the ground, shuddering and quiet. She looked up at Stiles as the boy dropped to his knees by her side.

“The holo,” she rasped.

Stiles looked about, his eyes falling on the device where it had been tossed aside during the explosion. He scrambled across the ground, picking it up and passing it to her.

She held it up to her lips and said, “Araya Calavera, unfit for command. Transfer control… say your name.”

“Stiles Stilinski,” Stiles recited.

The holo chirped and Araya handed it to him.

“What did you do?” Stiles asked, his hands trembling as he took the holo from her.

“Don’t trust them,” Araya wheezed, ignoring Stiles’ question. “Kill Derek if you have to. Do what you came here to do.”

Her voice died off as she fell weakly back against the blood-soaked concrete, her body limp and lifeless as her dark eyes clouded over.

A broken sob fell past Stiles’ lips as he gently laid his hand on Scott’s, stilling his friend’s actions.

“She’s gone,” he whispered.

Scott bit his lip, fighting back his tears as he sat back on his heels and closed his eyes for a moment of quiet.

Stiles’ attention was drawn to the pained cries of one of the Leek sisters. He lifted his gaze and looked across the plaza to where the woman stood, keeled over in pain, with her leg caught in a bear trap that had been hidden beneath the tiles.

Her sister sprinted across the space.

Stiles saw it before anyone else, the one tile that was slightly higher than the others.

“No,” Stiles called, but it was too late.

The twin stepped on it, the pressure plate sank beneath her.

There was a series of loud clunks as gears fell into place.

She froze, looking at the others with fear.

The ground beneath them began to rumble and gurgle.

The plaza shook as large walls rose and blocked the exits, locking them inside the cage.

The cracks between the tiles began to darken as black ooze bubbled and rose between them.

“Move!” Stiles shouted.

The squad began to run for high ground.

Stiles sprinted across the space, stopping beside one of the twins as he began to pull the jaws of the trap open. He cried out in pain as the barbs dug into his bare fingers, but finally it was open enough for the other twin to pull her wounded sister free.

They stumbled up the stairs and towards the rest of the squad.

Stiles yelped as something grabbed his pack and hurled him backwards.

He hit the ground with a solid thud and a grunt of pain, but it was short lived; a heavy weight slammed down on his chest and straddled his torso, pinning him to the ground.

The older boy’s eyes were hollow and dark as he slammed the butt of the gun against Stiles’ face, splitting his pale flesh and spilling blood across the ground. He pulled back and tried to attack him again but Stiles turned his head and narrowly missed the attack.

A large figure tackled Derek to the ground, knocking him off Stiles and buying them enough time for Scott to help his friend to his feet.

Derek fought back against Mitchell, tossing him aside and hurrying to his feet. He spun around and shoved the man backwards.

Tendrils of black ooze snagged Mitchell’s clothes and pulled him back, the oily gunk enveloping his body and suffocating his screams.

There was a loud metal twang as Mitchell’s body was hurled into the air, penetrated by metal spikes, and strung up over the plaza like a fly in a spider’s web.

The Mute hurried forward and tackled Derek to the ground, pinning his arms to his side and fighting against his thrashing body as he dragged Derek to higher ground.

Scott paused on the highest step, looking down at the rising sludge.

They needed to keep going.

He looked around frantically.

“In there!” he shouted, leading the way to nearby a building and still holding the front of Stiles’ jacket as he dragged the boy across the space. He slammed his boot into the door, bursting it open and turning back to a second to make sure the squad was following. He hurried up the stairs, releasing his grip on Stiles and letting the boy run alongside him.

They pivoted on their ankles and sprinted up the next flight of the stairs, climbing higher and higher. They pulled up to an abrupt halt, grabbing at the banister and each other as they skidded across the landing. Their eyed fell on the crumbled stairway that led to the next level.

They were trapped.

Scott and Stiles backed into the corner of the landing as the others joined them.

The rippling ooze rose higher and higher, the nauseating stench of tar churning their guts and burning their nostrils. The thick sludge bubbled and gurgled as it lapped at the stairs like the tide caressing the shore, rising higher and higher.

“Move back,” Lorraine instructed.

The survivors pushed themselves as far back against the window as possible.

Peter and Chris pushed the children behind them, using their bodies as shields against the advancing sludge.

“It’s slowing down,” Scott pointed out.”

And, sure enough, the ooze slowed, the thick surface undulating and rocking against the top stair before finally falling still.

Then there was a loud slurping sound and unnerving gurgling as the inky-black ooze began to recede like bathwater down a drain.

They let out a collective sigh of relief.

Stiles’ shoulders dropped and he pressed his head back against the wall, trying to calm his racing heart as it threatened to burst through his chest.

Scott stepped across the landing to where the Leek sisters sat. He pulled out his pack and began to bandage the injured twin’s leg.

“We need to go,” Corporal Holmes muttered. “If the peacekeepers didn’t know where we were, they do now. It’s not safe here.”

Lorraine pulled her radio off her belt and attempted to call the base, “451 to base, come in… 451 to base, come in…”

There was nothing but static and white noise.

Lorraine shook her head. “No signal.”

Stiles turned his glittering amber eyes to the blackened plaza outside the window, to where Araya’s body laid encased in rubbery black ooze.

“We have to get going,” Holmes insisted.

“We can’t go anywhere,” Scott argued, looking down at the injured twin. “She’s in no condition to move. She needs medical treatment, _proper_ medical treatment. Now.”

“I can get us back to base,” Lorraine announced. She turned to face Stiles and ordered, “Stilinski, give me the holo.”

Stiles turned to look at her, his eyes cold as he shook his head.

“Stilinski,” Lorraine growled.

“No,” Stiles replied calmly. “Araya gave it to me.”

“What?” Lorraine asked, stunned.

“It’s true,” Severo says. “Araya gave him security clearance.”

“Why would she do that?” Lorraine questioned, sceptical.

“I’m on special orders from President McCall,” Stiles lied, saying it as boldly and confidently as he could manage.

“To do what?” Lorraine pressed.

“To assassinate President Deucalion,” Stiles answered bluntly.

“I don’t believe that for one second,” Lorraine sneered. “As your new commander-in-charge, I order you to transfer clearance to me.”

“I can’t do that,” Stiles said defiantly.

Lorraine drew her gun, aiming the barrel at Stiles’ head.

The boy didn’t flinch.

There was a flurry of metallic clicking as everyone drew their guns and pointed them at each other.

“Let’s not lose our heads here,” Peter said quietly, raising his hands defensively as he stepped in front of everyone and dispersed the tension.

“I’m not asking you again, Stilinski,” Lorraine growled.

Severo stepped in the way of her gun, shielding Stiles with his body as he said, “It’s the truth. All of it.”

Stiles was shocked for a moment.

Why would Severo support his lie, especially after Stiles just led his sister to her death?

“Rafael McCall wants it televised,” Severo insisted. “The execution of Deucalion by the spark of the rebellion, a fitting way to end this war, don’t you think?”

“And while we’re arguing, hundreds of peacekeepers are on their way here,” Peter pointed out.

Stiles stepped forward and encouraged the others to lower their weapons. He glared at Lorraine as he said, “Araya promised me that, when the time came, you’d help me.”

Lorraine sighed and lowered her gun. “Alright, soldier.”

“What about my sister?” one of the twins spoke up. “Her leg’s too bad and I can’t move her. I’m not leaving her.”

“We need to evacuate,” Lorraine said, her voice soft and comforting. “We’ll get to safety and radio for a transport unit to get the two of you out of here. Just lie low and stay hidden.”

The uninjured sister nodded, pulling her twin closer into her arms.

Stiles looked down at the wounded sister, her pant leg stained with blood and patches of ivory bone showing through the torn flesh. She was deathly pale from blood loss and wavering on the verge of unconsciousness.

Scott stepped away from them and made his way over to the stairs. He very carefully lowered his boot onto the black step.

It was solid.

He pulled his foot back, noticing that the solid black coating was undisturbed.

“It doesn’t look like we’re going to leave any footprints,” Scott announced. “We should get moving now.”

“Let’s go,” Chris insisted, making a start towards the stairs.

Peter and the Mute followed, guiding Derek – who was very calm and quiet, his expression twisted into one of confusion as if he had woken from a nightmare.

Corey, Holmes and the camera crew followed soon after.

Stiles and Lorraine were the last to leave, both hesitating by the stairs and casting one last glance back at the twins.

“As soon as we get a signal, we’ll send someone for you,” Lorraine promised.

One of the twins nodded, drawing her gun and readying herself if the worst was to happen.

Stiles bowed his head, his heart sinking into his gut as he made his way downstairs. He was reluctant to leave, but he had to.

The cameras outside the buildings were encased in black ooze, mummified and no longer functional.

They crossed the plaza to where the others were.

Scott gripped his gun and slammed the butt into the window, shattering the glass of several buildings before climbing inside one. He led the way upstairs and into an apartment complex. He rattled the doorhandles until one finally opened.

The squad hurried inside and hid in the large, open lounge room.

“Close the windows,” Lorraine ordered.

They did as instructed, peering through the gaps in the heavy curtains as they watched a troop of peacekeepers stormed the plaza.

There was a barrage of gunfire as the Leek sisters put up a fight, but it was short lived as a peacekeeper hoisted a missile launcher onto their shoulder and fired.

The building was engulfed in fire as glass and concrete toppled.

“Oh God,” Corey gasped.

“There’s no way they survived,” Scott muttered, disheartened.

Stiles felt his body tremble. He squeezed his eyes shut and collapsed to his knees, clutching his chest as he gasped for air and fought off a panic attack.

“Stiles,” Scott called quietly, hurrying over to the boy’s side.

Stiles shook his head and pushed Scott’s hands away, fighting off his panic attack.

“Stiles,” Scott whispered.

“It’s my fault,” Stiles uttered under his breath. “They’re dead and it’s my fault.”

Scott opened his mouth to say something when the television blinked on, the obnoxiously loud Capitol anthem blaring in their ears.

 

CAPITOL BROADCAST.

MANDATORY VIEWING.

ATTENTION, PEOPLE OF BEACON HILLS.

 

The bright image died away, replaced with a familiar face.

“Good afternoon, I am Danny Mahealani and this is the coverage of the events of the Capitol,” Danny started, his voice seriously. “Today, as our valiant peacekeepers fight to keep us safe, out story takes a surprising twist. Stiles Stilinski, our once-treasured son, has infiltrated the Capitol with some of the other victors whose names are all too familiar: Corey Bryant, the Mute, Peter Hale and our dear Derek Hale.”

Stiles glanced over to Derek, noticing how the older boy watched from the doorway, his face red and his eyes full of tears as he watched the replay of the footage: of the activated pods, of him attacking Stiles and killing Mitchell.

Stiles watched as his face contorted in pain and the reality of his actions set in.

The clip of Derek attacking Stiles played again, prompting Danny to say, “Clearly, some alliances don’t last forever.”

Stiles looked away from Derek and bowed his head.

The broadcast continued, “Take a look at what happened moments ago when our valiant peacekeepers trapped Stiles Stilinski and his band of foolish rebels. Whatever arrogance brought this boy back to us, you are about to witness a great victory, not only for the Capitol, but for Beacon Hills.”

There was a loud boom as they replayed the clip of the missile that killed the twins.

“There you have it,” Danny said. “Stiles Stilinski, the boy on fire who inspired so much violence, has met a violent end. Stay tuned for more information.”

The broadcast ended, the screen blacking out as the apartment was immersed in darkness.

Severo, Jones and the Mute searched the apartment for candles, spreading them around the space and lighting them.

“So now that we’re dead, what are we going to do?” Scott asked.

“Isn’t it obvious?” Derek muttered. “The next step is to kill me.”

Stiles froze, his gut lurching at the sound of those words. He turned and looked at Derek, his body cold as fear coursed through his veins.

“Derek,” Peter started.

“I murdered one of our squad members,” Derek interrupted. He glanced across the room at Stiles, meeting the boy’s gaze of a second before dropping his head and muttering, “Stiles is right… I’m nothing but a Capitol mutt. And it’s only a matter of time before I snap again and kill someone else.”

Everyone was silent for a moment.

“I’m not in control,” Derek confessed. “I need a wolfsbane pill so I can die when I need to.”

“If it gets that far, I’ll kill you myself,” Scott replied, but it wasn’t a threat; it was a promise.


	28. Chapter 28

They settled in for the night, raiding the apartment for blankets and food.

The squad gathered in the loungeroom, sitting down on the large couch – all except for Derek; he lingered in the doorway, asking the others to tie him to a post to ensure he didn’t hurt anyone. Peter and Chris would bring him food, water and blankets and the Mute sat nearby so Derek had company.

The television blinked on again, lit with the ‘MANDATORY VIEWING’ screen that was accompanied by the obnoxious anthem. It faded away as the Capitol emblem lit the screen, overlayed with the portraits of their squad members as the dull thud of firing cannons sounded off.

Jones Jay. CAPITOL.

Matthias Jay. CAPITOL.

The brother’s portraits lit up the screen and Matthias laughed. Jones looked at his brother and sighed that it was a good photo of him, very flattering.

Lorraine Martin. CAPITOL.

Marty Holmes. DISTRICT TWO.

Leek Twins. DISTRICT TWO.

Any laughter died away, only for a moment, as they bowed their heads in remembrance of the squad members they had lost that day.

Their portraits were bold and beautiful.

Louis Mitchell: DISTRICT TWO.

The man’s face was strong and composed, the way any soldier would look in their portrait.

Stiles glanced over his shoulder for a second, noticing that Derek had shrunk into the shadows and was hitting his head against the pole he was chained to.

The Mute reached over to Derek, setting a comforting hand on the young man’s shoulder and calming him.

The slide show continued.

The Mute. DISTRICT EIGHT.

Corey Bryant. DISTRICT NINE.

Scott McCall. DISTRICT TWELVE.

Chris Argent. DISTRICT TWELVE.

Peter Hale. DISTRICT TWELVE.

Peter couldn’t help but laugh at his, the dry chuckle echoing in the darkness of the apartment. He was clearly amused by their attempt at making the war seem like yet another Hunger Games, mocking them in their deaths.

Stiles’ heart skipped a beat as the next slide came up, the one he only ever saw in his nightmares: Derek Hale. DISTRICT TWELVE.

Stiles Stilinski. DISTRICT TWELVE.

Severo Calavera. DISTRICT THIRTEEN.

Araya Calavera. DISTRICT THIRTEEN.

“They’re mocking us,” Stiles growled, unable to hide his rage. “They’re making it a spectacle of this, of us.”

Araya’s portrait faded as Deucalion’s face lit up the screen.

“So, Stiles Stilinski, the poor, delusional boy with nothing more than a talent at using a staff, is dead. He was nothing more than a face picked from the masses,” Deucalion said nonchalantly. “Was he important? He was everything to you rebels because you have no vision, you have no true leader among you. You have made yourselves an alliance but you don’t know what that means. Your soldiers are at each other’s throats.”

The broadcast broke up, the image dissolving into pixels and static as a second broadcast interrupted Deucalion.

Rafe’s face broke through the static, calm and composed.

“For those of you who don’t know me, I am President Rafael McCall, leader of District Thirteen and the rebel alliance,” Rafe introduced. “I’ve interrupted the broadcast from your President in which he attempted to defame a brave young man. ‘A face picked from the masses’, he called him, but isn’t that how every good leader starts out? I had the privilege of knowing Stiles. He was a courageous, selfless, outgoing young child from District Twelve. He survived the poverty and destruction of the seventy-fourth Hunger Games and the Quarter Quell without losing who he truly was. He rose from the ashes as the hero he is, the hero we needed, and – dead or alive – he will be the face of this revolution. You cannot stop the fire form catching.”

“I had no idea I meant something to him,” Stiles drolled sarcastically, his voice laced with acidity. He didn’t believe a single world Rafael said. A dwelling rage brewed inside of him as Rafe ignored the others who had ‘died’, neglected his own son, and disregarded those in their unit who _had_ lost their lives.

Rafe continued, “His vision and ours will be realised: a free Beacon Hills where everyone has a voice and their own free will. And in his memory, we will rid Beacon Hills of its oppressors. We will miss him but that doesn’t mean he’s gone. We will fight for him. We will remember him.”

Rafael broadcasted a remembrance clip for Stiles, a collage of clips: him volunteering for Scott at the Reaping Ceremony for the seventy-fourth Games, him and Allison standing proud atop the podium of District Twelve, the two of them parading through the Capitol in blazing outfits, him holding Kira and Allison as they died and laying them each in a bed of flowers, his kiss with Derek and the growth of their relationship, him and Derek in the gorgeous creations Deaton dressed them in for last year’s Opening Ceremony, his suit ablaze during his Quarter Quell interview, him comforting Hayden and Meredith, him holding Laura Allison and several other clips taken from the Games and from the propaganda clips. Finally, it ended with the clip of each District raising their hands in the funeral salute of District Twelve, a final farewell and a sign of remembrance for the spark of the revolution.

The broadcast ended.

“Deucalion is in his mansion,” Stiles said abruptly, a map out of his bag and spreading it across the table. “Where is it?”

“Here,” Lorraine replied, pointing at a spot on the map. “It’s at least seventy blocks north of here.”

“Nobody knows we’re alive,” Stiles pointed out. “Now would be the perfect time to move.”

He studied the map for a moment, focusing on the open space drawn behind the Presidential Palace.

“This area, is that the gardens by the Palace?” he asked.

“Yes,” Lorraine confirmed.

“If he steps outside, I can get a clear shot,” Stiles said. “Granted, Scott would be a better shot than me at that distance.”

“It’s not that simple,” Lorraine interrupted. “We’re pinned down. Get the holo out and press the yellow button to scan for pods.”

Stiles did as he was instructed, noticing how millions of little yellow dots filled the map of the Capitol, concentrated around the blue dot that signalled their location.

“There’s a pod every ten steps,” Scott muttered, disheartened. “We can’t go anywhere on the streets.”

“Then how the hell are we meant to get to Deucalion?” Stiles asked.

On the other side of the room, Jones tapped his brother’s shoulder.

Matthias looked at his brother, watching as Jones pointed down at the ground. His eyes grew wide with realisation as he spoke up, “There might be another way.”

 

Matthias led the way down into the underground tunnels, waiting until the squad were gathered before he explained, “My brother knows these tunnels really well; he worked sanitation down here until we escaped.”

Jones took a few steps forward but stopped, his shoulders heaving as he drew in shallow, panicked breaths.

Matthias stepped forward, laying his hand reassuringly on his brother’s shoulder.

Stiles watched as Jones’ breathing slowed, calming slightly as he looked up at his brother with glimmering eyes filled with painful memories and unebbing fear.

“It’s okay,” he said softly, looking Jones in the eye. “We’ll get through this. You’re not alone this time, I’m not leaving your side.”

Jones nodded slowly.

Matthias took his brother’s hand in his own, giving it a gentle, reassuring squeeze as Jones looked about the labyrinth of tunnels and orientated himself. After a moment, he nodded and led the way into a dully-lit tunnel, the others began to following.

Stiles caught up to Matthias and Jones – still holding hands as if they were terrified that if they let go – even for a second – they would lose each other.

“He was five years old when they made him an Avox,” Matthias continued. “They stuck him down here for seven years. He never saw the sun for those seven years. When he was twelve-years-old, Lorraine broke us out and helped us escape to Thirteen. Exiled, she hid in Two, leaving behind her own daughter… She risked everything to get us out.”

Stiles glanced over his shoulder at the woman who followed a few steps behind them, her dark hair – nowhere near as vibrant as Lydia’s – bouncing off her shoulders with her sure moments.

They walked on through the tunnels.

A low rumble disturbed the quiet, startling them.

Jones tapped his ear pointed down one of the tunnels as they reached a branching path, signalling that that was where the sound was coming from. He tightened his grip on his brother’s hand and dragged Matthias towards the other tunnel. The others followed, pressing their backs against the tiled walls and hiding around the bend of the other tunnel as a large train passed by, carrying heavily armed peacekeepers in thick-plated armour.

They stayed still, blending into the shadows as the sound of the rumbling train died off in the distance.

“We’re too exposed here,” Peter whispered.

Jones nodded and led them towards a small exit hatch. He pulled it open and ushered everyone down the ladder.

Stiles hesitated.

“We’ve got a problem,” Stiles called to the others, pointing out the camera in the corner of the winding hallway. “He knows we’re underground.”

“Stay alert,” Lorraine instructed. “Keep moving.”

One by one, they climbed down the exit hatch.

Stiles went to follow but stopped, turning and glaring at the camera as he said, “I thought, by now, you would have learnt not to underestimate me. Don’t count me out just yet.”


	29. Chapter 29

The sewers were tight and dark, the water sloshing about their knees and dragging at their legs as waded forward. The stench was sickening, but they soon got used to it. Scurrying rats screeched as they past, their talons scratching at the rusty metal pipes.

There were no cameras in the sewers, no way for the Capitol to see them, but that didn’t ease the unnerving sense that they were being followed by impending danger.

Their heartbeats sat in their throats as they walked on through the knee-deep water.

They moved slowly through the daunting tunnels.

Corey yelped as a pipe burst overhead, spraying steam into the confined space.

Chris grabbed the boy, pulling him back from the scolding steam.

Stiles’ ears screamed at the deafening sound of the rattling pipe thundering and pitched screech of the whistling steam.

After a moment, the gushing steam died away and it was quiet again.

“Everyone okay?” Lorraine called.

“Yeah,” Scott replied from the back of the line.

“Okay, keep an eye out and watch your heads,” Lorraine instructed. “Let’s keep going.”

They continued, moving through the water as it grew deeper. The water level rose to their chests and they all hoisted their weapons and packs above their heads to keep them dry.

Derek kept his shackles above the water where they were in full view of the others.

Finally, they came to a stop, climbing up into an adjoining bunker-like room. They sat down and slumped back against the walls, finally resting.

“Hey, Derek,” Chris called, leading the way to the far end of the room. He nodded towards a small nook across from where he dropped his pack and said, “Tuck in there.”

Derek nodded and sat down, letting Chris undo his cuffs and secure them to one of the nearby pipes.

They ate and sat in silence, mourning their fallen soldiers and listening to the persistent, maddening, metronomic dripping pipes.

It wasn’t long before Stiles was overcome by fatigue and drifted off to sleep.

 

Stiles bolted upright with a gasp as someone gently jostled him awake.

Lorraine towered over him, gently shushing him.

“It’s your turn for watch,” Lorraine whispered.

Stiles nodded, picking up his bow and moving towards the entrance of the room. He heard Lorraine sat down with the others, tilting her head back and quickly falling asleep. He ran his hand down his face and let his amber eyes wander down the length of the dank tunnels, listening to the noises that filled the quiet.

“In the Capitol, they used tracker jacker venom on me,” Derek said quietly, startling Stiles.

“I thought you were asleep,” Stiles whispered, trying not to wake the others.

“I can’t sleep,” Derek admitted. “It’s hard to let down your guard when you’re messed up in the head.”

“They used tracker jacker venom to alter your memories, yes,” Stiles answered. “It’s called hijacking.”

“Yeah, that’s what the doctors in Thirteen said,” Derek muttered. “You were stung once too, real or not real?”

“Real,” Stiles replied. “More than once, but only once since we’ve known each other.”

Derek nodded thoughtfully. “When they used the venom on me, they would show me pictures of my life. Some of them weren’t real; they’d changed them. At first they all blurred together but now I think I’m starting to sort them out. It’s as if the real ones are gritty and have texture to them whereas the fake ones are all shiny and… and too good to be real, like they’ve been glossed over.”

“You should get some rest,” Stiles encouraged softly.

“You’re still trying to protect me, real or not real?” Derek asked.

“Real,” Stiles answered. “That’s what we do, we protect each other.”

Derek nodded again and settled down into the shadows to rest.

Among the dull lamplight, Stiles noticed the glimmer of a ring on Derek’s finger, a weight on his hand where he can see it and feel it, where it was safe.

Stiles bowed his head thoughtfully, leaning back against the rough concrete walls and listening to the trickling water and rattling pipes.


	30. Chapter 30

Stiles stayed awake until the early hours of the morning, listening to the sounds of trickling water and sloshing tides as the water was pushed back and forth.

An unfamiliar sound disturbed the quiet.

Stiles sat upright and shuffled forwards. He pulled the holo from his belt and pressed the yellow button, searching for pods.

Nothing.

Stiles hooked the device back onto his belt and rose to his feet, stepping towards the open doorway and listening to the quiet. Down the winding tunnels of the sewers he could hear a strange hissing and the sloshing of water.

There was a loud clang as Derek bolted awake, his cuffs strained against the metal pipe.

Stiles tried to calm his racing heart, gasping for air as he braced himself against the wall.

“Stiles,” Derek called, scared.

Corey stirred. He opened his mouth to say something when the screeching hisses returned. Corey looked around at the others. “What was that?”

“Mutts,” Stiles gasped.

Corey’s face seemed to twist in the darkness, now malice and determined; the face of a victor.

“We need to get out of here,” Stiles announced, keeping his voice quiet as he and Corey began to wake the others.

They grabbed their packs and moved towards the tunnels, all alert.

“What’s going on?” Chris asked, slightly confused.

“They’ve released mutts by the sound of it,” Stiles whispered, trying to hide his fear. “Jones, what’s the fastest way out of here?”

Jones took the lead, the others following him through the waterway.

Scott picked up his crossbow and loaded and incendiary arrow. He aimed down the tunnels and fired.

The darkness erupted in roaring flames, the bright orange glow lighting the way.

The hissing grew louder.

Stiles readied his bow and arrow.

He, Scott and Chris scanned the darkness for movement, their eyes darting about the branching network of tunnels.

They stopped at a dead end, the tunnel connected to the next by a narrow gap.

Jones signed for the others to stay put as he crawled through the gap and surveyed ahead. He peered around the corners and stepped into the tunnels.

The hissing, gurgling and unhuman screeching grew louder.

Stiles looked through the gap, his eyes wide with fear.

 _Where did he go_?

“Jones,” Stiles whispered, panicked.

The man leant back into view, nodding and gesturing for the others to follow.

One by one they climbed through, carefully setting their weapons aside and sliding through the gaps. Severo was the first to go, followed by Matthias and Holmes. Chris crawled through with ease – having done something very similar for years in the mines – and turned back to watch Peter attempt to do the same.

“Keep going,” Lorraine hissed.

The Mute helped Derek crawl through the space before following. Next was Corey – whose slender body fit with ease – and then Stiles and Scott.

Lorraine watched as the flames began to die away. She scanned the darkness, her keen eyes focused on the inky-black abyss as she directed the dull glow of the torch attached to her gun. Slowly, she lowered her gun and turned to join the others.

There was the quiet sound of crumbling rocks fell from the ceiling that sploshed into the water, next was the wispy intake of breath.

Lorraine swallowed hard. She didn’t move.

She held her breath and met Stiles’ gaze as the boy stretched out his hand to help her through the gap.

She slowly shook her head.

There was a slosh of water.

She spun around, raising her gun.

The creature knocked her weapon out of her hands and clamped its hand around her throat, the jagged talons dug into her flesh. The creature leant in close, exposing its face. It was deathly pale and distorted, it’s flesh twisted about its head like a blindfold. Its mouth was full of rows upon rows of teeth, pieces of rotting flesh caught between the jagged teeth.

She didn’t get the chance to scream. The creature bit into her face and tore her head from her body before retreating into the darkness with its prize. It vanished out of sight as a wave of others crowded around the entrance, reaching out with their skinny, elongated limbs.

Stiles reared back, notching an arrow and letting it fly.

The end ignited, flames engulfing the narrow entrance and knocking him back against the far wall of the tunnel.

The Mute hooked his arms under Stiles’ and hauled the boy to his feet.

 “Go, go, go!” Scott howled.

They raced through the tunnels, stumbling about and bouncing off the walls as they dragged their feet through the shallow sludge and filthy water.

A burning ache radiated from Stiles’ thigh but he didn’t have time to slow down. He limped as he dragged his leg behind him, hurrying down the tunnel with the others.

Derek stopped and turned to face him. He grabbed Stiles’ arm and for a moment Stiles thought he had snapped again and was going to attack him. Then suddenly Stiles’ struggle lessened; Derek hoisted Stiles’ arm over his shoulders, supporting his weight – and practically carrying him – as they ran.

“Jones, get us out of here!” Matthias shouted.

The pipes overhead rattled and thumped. The bolts gave way and a mutt dropped down from the ceiling.

It pounced on Holmes, pinning him to the wall and tearing him apart.

Scott pushed past Stiles and Derek, lifting his crossbow and firing.

The incendiary arrow ignited, engulfing the mutt in flames. The creature reared back, thrashing about and screeching as it tried to swat out the flames.

Severo, Matthias, Chris, Peter and the Mute backpedalled away from the inferno and the creature.

“Fall back,” Severo ordered from the other side of the fire, raising his gun and firing at the deformed creatures. “Keep going, we’ll find another way out.”

Jones nodded and led them down the hall and into a large room. He climbed up onto a metal grate of an elevated platform and pointed out the ladder that led up to a hatch in the roof.

Derek set Stiles down on his feet and Stiles spun around, notched his bow and fired another arrow, barring the path of the creatures with a wall of fire.

A few screamed, their bodies covered with fire and gyrating in pain as the fell backwards.

Stiles drew normal arrows, firing over and over again. The arrows impaled the deformed mutts, knocking them back but not killing them.

Jones climbed up the ladder and unlocked the latch, shoving it open and climbing to safety.

Scott made a start for the ladder but stopped and turned back to his friend. “Stiles, come on!”

“Go! I’ll cover you,” Stiles shouted as he reached back into his quiver. His eyes flew open wide; he was out of arrows.

He tossed his bow aside and drew out his staff. He flicked it open and readied himself to fight. But he was too late; one of the mutts broke through wall of fire.

It knocked him off balance and pinned him down against the metal grate.

Stiles wrestled and fought back, but it was no use; the creature was far stronger than him.

It tilted its head, its jaw opening wide as its teeth drew closer and closer to Stiles’ face.

Derek lunged forward, wrapping the thick strap of his cuffs around the creature’s neck and pulling it back. His glare was cold and focused, his primal instincts and years of training as a Career began to kick in.

Stiles rolled aside as Derek quickly pulled the creature into a headlock. He grabbed the mutt’s chin and jerked it aside.

A loud crack echoed about the closed space as the mutt fell still in Derek’s arms.

He released his grip, unwinding the strap of his cuffs and letting the creature fall to the ground.

More mutts charged forward, one knocking Derek aside and another tackling Stiles into the shallow water.

Its hands tightened around Stiles’ throat, holding him beneath the surface of the water.

Stiles clawed at the creature’s hands, but it didn’t make any difference.

He couldn’t get free.

He shut his eyes and held his breath, falling still beneath the undulating waves.

The world around him was muffled, so distant that he seemed to be transported to another world: a memory.

_“Are you okay?” he heard Marin ask quietly._

_He blinked slightly, turning to look at her and meeting her gaze as she looked back at the boy with care and worry._

_Stiles turned again, his eyes drifting to the faint glimmer of sapphire blue water downhill as he mused, “You know, when you’re drowning you don’t actually inhale until right before you black out. It’s called voluntary apnoea. It’s like no matter how much you’re freaking out, the instinct to not let the water in is so strong that you won’t open your mouth until you feel like your head is exploding.”_

_The words were so familiar, but they could never explain the pain of drowning or the agony of the memories._

_He remembered how it felt when his redundant tears fell from his eyes and mixed with the murky bathwater.  He remembered what it felt like as he thrashed back against the tight grip that held him underwater. He remembered the sound of the water and his mother’s frustrated cries as the brown waves crashed over the edge of the bathtub and pooled across the dusty floorboards. He remembered how his lungs felt like a raging inferno until finally it got to him and he opened his mouth to breathe._

_He remembered how his voice weakened slightly as he continued, “Then, when you finally do let it in, that’s when it stops hurting. It’s not scary anymore… It’s actually kind of peaceful.”_

_Marin took a step closer._

_“Stiles,” she said softly, craning her neck slightly to look him in the eye. “Are you alright?”_

_“I’m fine,” Stiles replied abruptly, snapping out of his trance and looking away dismissively. He turned around and took a few steps forward, catching up with the rest of their group. “Aside from not sleeping, the jumpiness, the constant, overwhelming, crushing fear that something terrible is about to happen.”_

_“It’s called hypervigilance,” Marin whispered. “It’s the persistent feeling of being under threat.”_

_“But it’s not just a feeling,” Stiles countered, keeping his voice quiet and even. “It’s… it’s like a panic attack. You know, like I can’t even breathe.”_

_“Like you’re drowning?” Marin offered._

_“Yeah,” Stiles agreed._

_“_ _So if you're drowning and you're trying to keep your mouth closed until that very last moment, what if you choose to not open your mouth? To not let the water in?” she asked._

_“You do anyway,” Stiles told her. “It's a reflex.”_

_Marin pushed a curtain of vines aside and let Stiles step past. “But if you hold off until that reflex kicks in, you have more time, right?”_

_Stiles thought about it for a second. “Not much time.”_

_“But more time to fight your way to the surface?” Marin proposed, lifting her brow slightly._

_Stiles shrugged. “I guess.”_

_“More time to be rescued,” Marin added._

_“More time to be in agonizing pain,” Stiles corrected. “I mean, did you forget about the part where you feel like your head's exploding?”_

_“If it's about survival, isn't a little agony worth it?” Marin asked._

_“But what if it just gets worse?” Stiles countered. “What if it's agony now and then and it's just hell later on?”_

_“Then think about something Winston Churchill once said, ‘if you're going through hell, keep going’,” she proposed._

_“And what if help isn’t coming?” Stiles asked. “What if help is too late?”_

_Marin looked at him, her dark eyes unsteady as she promised, “Help will always come. And if they’re too late, then you died fighting.”_

The memory drifted as he remembered Commander Palin’s words: “If we die, let it be for a cause and not for a spectacle.”

Stiles’ eyes flew open wide, filled with a burning fire of determination and rage.

He reached down to his thigh holster and pulled the knife from its sheath. He swung at the creature, lodging the blade in the creature’s neck.

It reared back, releasing its grip on Stiles.

He burst out of the water and pulled his arm back, tearing open the creature’s throat.

It crumpled to the ground.

Stiles spun around, looking at Derek.

He was pinned down, unable to fight with his hands bound.

Stiles lunged at the creature, knocking it off Derek and stabbing it to death.

Derek cried out as another mutt grabbed his ankles and dragged him backwards.

Stiles spun around at the sound, his heart lurching with fear as Derek screamed his name.

“Stiles!”

Stiles kicked up his heels and ran towards the older boy, but he was knocked aside by another mutt.

They were coming all at once: too many, too fast.

A figure leapt forward, an axeblade pressed against the throat of the mutt and, with one swift motion, decapitated the vile, deformed creature.

The Mute stood behind it, bold and heroic. He reached forward and helped Stiles to his feet.

Chris tossed Stiles his staff and ushered him towards Peter before running after Derek.

Stiles turned to run to Derek, watching as the older boy rolled over and used the thick band of his cuffs to hold back the advancing mutt.

The creature’s jagged teeth tore through the band and Derek quickly ducked his head to the side, the mutt’s jaws slamming into the rocky floor of the cavern.

Derek lifted himself up slightly and slammed his weight down on the creature, shattering its skull against the rocks.

It twitched slightly but fell still.

The Mute fought off the charging mutts while Chris helped Derek to his feet and shoved him towards the exit.

“Go!” Severo ordered, fighting off the advancing waves with a blaze of gunfire.

Scott climbed up first, followed by the Mute, then Peter and Chris. Stiles made sure Derek made it up before climbing up after him with Corey on his heels.

Stiles hurled himself up onto flat ground before reaching back down for Corey. He caught the boy’s hand, pulling him up slightly as he climbed the rusty ladder.

A mutt leapt from the water, bouncing onto the metal platform and grabbing Corey’s ankle.

Corey screamed in agony as the blade-like talons pierced his skin and the creature pulled him back down.

Stiles tightened his grip on Corey’s arm, struggling as he fought to keep his hold on the boy.

“Don’t let go!” Stiles shouted.

Tears streaked Corey’s face as he made a weak attempt to grab Stiles’ hand with his other arm.

His eyes were wide with fear, pain taking it’s hold as he thrashed about and tried to kick the mutt off. But it was no use, another leapt from the metal platform and snagged his captive leg, then another.

The Mute dropped his axe, laying down beside Stiles and reaching for the Corey’s hand. They began to pull him upwards.

Derek dropped to the ground beside them, pulling Corey up. He looked at the younger boy with pale eyes full of sorrow and whispered, “I’m sorry.”

There was a glimmer of silver as the light struck the metal plating and the gut-wrenching sound of a blade tearing through flesh and shattering bones.

Corey didn’t get a chance to scream.

The mutts fell back into the cavern, striking their heads on the sharp edge of the metal ledge and falling lifelessly into the water.

The Mute hurled Corey out of harm’s way, holding the boy close as they all took in what had just happened.

Derek stood back from them, a blood-soaked axe in his hand and his eyes full of pain as he looked at Corey.

The boy was shuddering, the shock overwhelming him to the point that he couldn’t cry or scream. Numb tears traced his pale cheeks as his unfocused eyes stared into oblivion.

Scott leapt to his side, shedding his own armour and shirt and using it as a bandage and a splint as he tried his best to stop the blood that gushed from Corey’s amputated leg.

Stiles stared at it, horrified and unable to take his eyes off it.

Derek had cut it clean off at the point where his shin met his knee, leaving a jagged stump that bled into Scott’s shirt.

Stiles looked around at the others.

The gunfire stopped.

The air filled with the horrendous, blood-curdling screams of two men being torn limb-from-limb.

“Matthias,” Stiles called, rolling onto his front and looking down into the hatch. “Severo.”

The mutts were swarming, a flurry of pale limbs among which he heard Severo shout back, “Go!”

Stiles patted his hip, feeling for what was missing.

He drew in a deep breath and closed his eyes.

“Wolfsbane,” he said, his voice faltering as if he were willing himself to say the words, pleading to end their suffering. “Wolfsbane.”

 _One more time_ , he told himself as tears caressed his cheeks. _One more time._

“Wolfsbane.”

The holo detonated.

There was a rush of heat followed by the monstrous roar of the inferno as the fire erupted from the holo and funnelled through the tunnels.

Jones slammed the hatch shut, the latch falling into place and sealing the explosion in the vent.

They all stood in stunned silence, listening as the muffled sounds of pained screams were silenced and rumble of the crackling fire slowly died away.

Derek cautiously took a step forward and handed the axe back to the Mute. He reached forward and lifted Corey effortlessly into his arms.

Stiles glanced over his shoulder and looked back at Jones.

Reality set in for a moment, his gut lurching into his throat as he realised he had just killed the man’s brother and his best friend; the last of his family.

“Jones,” Stiles started, but the words faltered and fell short of his lips.

The man met his gaze and nodded, leading the way through the tunnels and out into the open area of a train station.

The hurried thud of heavy footsteps and clattering metal armour closed in around them.

Stiles looked up.

“Shit,” the boy shouted. “Peacekeepers!”

“Run!” Chris ordered.

The sprinted through the open space, ducking behind pillars to avoid the gunfire as Chris and Scott fired back. The Mute and Peter fought off any of the armoured soldiers that managed to get close to them.

Stiles crouched low, his chest aching as air failed him. His hand held onto the Mute’s calf like a child holding onto their parent as he tried to keep himself from falling over.

The Mute grabbed his arm, pulling him out of their shelter and urging him to run.

He did, his legs flailing about and stumbling beneath him as he ignored the searing pain and forced himself to keep going.

The glossy white tiles beneath their feet began to tremble, cracking and crumbling as they fell away into nothing.

“Run!” Stiles shouted, glancing over his shoulder as the ground began to open up and the glossy white tiles fell away into an expanding, abysmal hole.

They ran.

 _Faster_ , his mind shouted at him.

Their feet pounded against the ground, their hearts racing in their chests and their lungs burning as they gulped down air.

_Faster._

Stiles caught up to Scott and Derek, the others running ahead of them.

“We’re not going to make it,” Scott shouted over the deafening rumble.

He looked ahead to where the tiles changed direction and style.

Jones, the Mute, Chris and Peter had made it to that section of the train station and were fighting their way through the row of peacekeepers that barred their escape.

“Jump!” Stiles ordered.

Without question, they leapt into the air.

Stiles held his breath, watching as the toe of his boot narrowly made it past the thin row of black tiles and to safety.

They hit the ground with a painful thud, sliding across the glossy surface and rolling across the floor.

“Keep moving,” Scott encouraged, rolling onto his front and rising to his feet.

The Mute ran back for them, lifting Corey into his arms and carrying him towards the exit.

Stiles scrambled to his feet.

“Derek, come on,” Stiles called as he sprinted forward.

His steps faltered when he realised Derek hadn’t moved.

He turned and ran back to Derek’s side.

Derek was on his knees, his face buried in his hands as he muttered something and rocked back and forth.

“Derek,” Stiles said, his voice shuddering as he dropped to his knees before the older boy and pulled his hands away from his face. “Look at me. Derek, _look at me_.”

Derek’s pale eyes were full of fear as he looked up at Stiles.

“We have to keep going,” Stiles said firmly.

“No, we don’t,” Derek argued, shaking his head and looking away.

Stiles tugged at his hands and insisted, “Yes, we do. Now, come on.”

“No!” Derek cried. “Leave me.”

“I’m not leaving you!” Stiles shouted back.

“Leave me!” Derek howled.

“Derek, look at me!” Stiles pulled Derek to his knees and cupped his face, looking the older boy in the eye. His voice weakened slightly as he whispered, “Look at me…”

He brought their mouths together in a blisteringly passionate kiss.

Derek seemed to weaken in hold, the kiss growing more gentle and tender as Stiles’ fingers gently caressed the older boy’s jaw, feeling his soft skin and rough whiskers.

Stiles felt one of Derek’s hands instinctively slide up to his neck, his calloused fingertips brushing against Stiles’ jaw before trailing back to the nape of his neck where he laced his fingers through the soft tufts of Stiles’ tousled hair.

Derek pressed his other hand to Stiles’ chest, feeling his beating heart and gently tugging at the boy’s chest plate, trying to pull him closer.

It was as if he was searching for a memory and trying to work out why this kiss was so familiar and felt so right.

Stiles felt Derek’s shoulders drop as he weakened in Stiles’ hold. He drew back ever so slightly, keeping their lips close but parted so they could draw in their panted breaths as Stiles whispered, breathless and pleading, “Stay with me.”

Derek’s eyes fluttered open, the aventurine depths returning to their gorgeous rich colour and full of love, adoration and trust as he looked up at Stiles. His lips were parted breathlessly and he was still slightly stunned as he began to nod slowly and replied, “Always.”

Stiles smiled weakly and helped Derek to his feet, holding his hand as they ran after the others.

They bounded up the stairs and into the streets of the Capitol.

“We’re in the outlines of the city, the residential area,” Peter announced as he looked around at the somewhat-familiar buildings. “There won’t be any pods here; they wouldn’t risk injuring Capitol civilians.”

“I know where we are,” Derek muttered. “I know a place. Follow me.”  
Everyone looked to Stiles, unsure of whether to trust Derek yet.

Stiles nodded and followed the older boy, the others trailing behind him.

They sprinted through the streets where the ash settled on the ground and the railings of buildings like a thick sheet of snow, the illusion only ruined by the bitter stench.

Along the billboards and electronic noticeboards were large wanted posters with familiar faces: their faces plastered on every corner and street of the Capitol.

Derek ignored them, navigating the streets and only stopping every so often to get his bearings. He ran straight for a large apartment building as if he knew the place and knocked on the door.

There was no answer.

He knocked louder, pounding his fist against the solid oak.

There was a quiet rattle of locks and the door opened a crack.

“Lydia said I could trust you,” Derek panted. “You said I could come here if I needed help and I need it now.”

The door opened.

They all rushed inside.

“Shut the door,” Peter instructed once they were all in the apartment. “We need to hide.”

“Basement,” a familiar voice replied, directing them into a narrow hallway and opening a small trapdoor that was concealed beneath a shag rug.

They clambered down the ladder.

Derek waited at the foot of the stairs and took Corey from the Mute, ever-so-carefully laying the unconscious boy down among a pile of thick coats and plump cushions.

Finally under cover and away from the prying eyes of the Capitol, Stiles took a second to take in his surroundings. He turned around and looked at the young man who had so willingly given refuge to wanted criminals. His eyes grew wide with shock as he looked at the familiar face and he was even more stunned by how normal the young man seemed when he wasn’t forcing a smile for the cameras.

Derek was the first to speak, looking up at the young man and whispering, “Thank you, Danny.”


	31. Chapter 31

They didn’t have a moment to spare.

Scott dropped his pack by Corey’s side and started giving orders, “Chris, I need you to sit with him and try and get him conscious again, keep him talking. Peter, I’m going to need bandages and lots of them, a needle and thread, and some way to cauterise the wound. We need to give him fluids and blood; he’s lost too much.”

“Cut up the spare fabric,” Danny instructed, directing Peter to the large pile of fabric on a nearby table. “There’s an abandoned medical supply store next door, I doubt they’ll have blood but I’ll see what I can find.”

“Thank you,” Scott whispered, already unfastening the plating of armour that he had strapped onto the boy’s leg minutes before. He uncoiled the blood-soaked shirt and pinched the artery shut.

Peter passed him a needle and thread and he did his best to stop the bleeding.

“Corey,” Chris said softly, gently shaking the boy in an attempt to stir him. “Corey, wake up. Come on, kid. Wake up.”

Corey blinked his eyes open weakly.

“Hey, kiddo,” Chris said calmly. “Keep your eyes open, alright? Talk to me, Corey.”

“I don’t know your name,” Corey slurred.

“I’m Chris,” the man replied.

“I wish we had met under better circumstances,” Corey muttered. “You seem like a good man; a good father; a good friend… a loyal defender… I want to be like you when I grow up.”

“I’m honoured,” Chris said with a soft smile.

Corey began to weaken in his hold, swaying slightly, but Chris jostled him and insisted, “Stay with me, Corey. Keep your eyes open and keep talking.”

“I don’t know what to talk about,” Corey admitted.

“Where are you going for your honeymoon?” Chris asked, grappling for topics of discussion.

“Somewhere quiet,” Corey wheezed. “It sounds stupid and cliché but I really want to take Mason for a picnic by a lake, somewhere where the grass is green, the water sparkles and we can listen to the soft whisper of rushing water, somewhere by a waterfall or some rapids or something.”

“That sounds wonderful,” Chris replied.

“Mason…” Corey mumbled, his voice full of recognition and fear. “Mason’s going to me so mad.”

“No, he’s not,” Chris assured him. “He’s going to be relieved that you’re still alive.”

Peter passed Scott a small lighter and a heap of bandages.

Scott drew in a deep breath and looked up at Chris.

Chris nodded, taking Corey’s hand in his own and squeezing it reassuringly.

Scott struck the flint of the lighter, watching it spark a few times before finally igniting. He brought it close to Corey’s leg.

Corey let out an agonising howl.

Chris and Peter did their best to hold the boy still as Scott cauterised the wound.

Corey’s screams died away as he passed out, falling weakly into Chris’ arms.

Scott finished his work and wrapped the amputated leg in bandages.

“It’ll have to do for now,” he said, drained and defeated. “He can’t move and we’ll have to get him proper medical help at the earliest possibility.”

“You can stay here as long as you need,” Danny announced as he came back downstairs with blood packs in his hands. “Will these do?”

Scott looked at them, checking the labelling before letting out a sigh of relief. “They’re perfect.”

He constructed a makeshift IV stand and pressed a needle into Corey’s veins, watching the blood trickle down the pipes and into the boy’s bloodstream.

Scott turned and looked at Stiles.

“I’m going to keep an eye on him for a moment, can you check out Derek’s wrists?” Scott asked.

Stiles nodded and caught the wad of bandages that Scott tossed his way.

He stepped over to where Derek sat, curled up in a ball and shut off from the world.

“Derek,” Stiles said softly, crouching before him.

Derek snapped back to reality, turning to look at Stiles.

Stiles kept his voice level and calm as he said, “I’m going to look at your wrists, okay?”

Derek nodded and offered his hands to the boy.

Stiles looked down at what remained of the cuffs. The bands were wound painfully tight around his wrists and the buckles were damaged to the point where they couldn’t be loosened or unhitched.

“I’m going to have to cut them off,” Stiles said, pausing a moment before clarifying, “The straps, not your hands.”

Derek nodded.

Stiles drew out the knife that was sheathed and strapped to his thigh.

Derek stared at the blade, flinching and pulling his hands back as Stiles brought the knife closer.

“It’s okay,” Stiles assured him. “I’m not going to hurt you, I promise.”

Derek didn’t seem any more at ease.

Stiles set the knife down and thought for a moment.

“Okay, Derek, I need you to trust me for a moment,” Stiles said softly. “I know your mind is telling you not to trust me, but I swear, I won’t hurt you… Close your eyes.”

Derek looked at him, squinting as if to determine whether Stiles was joking or not.

“Close your eyes,” Stiles encouraged. “And count to ten.”

Derek let out a heavy breath and let his eyes fall shut as he began to count. “One, two, three.”

“Slower,” Stiles instructed.

Derek started again. “One… Two… Three…”

Stiles picked up the knife and slid it beneath the bands, the serrated edge sawing through the thick straps with ease. He was done before Derek had finished counting, sheathing the knife and holding Derek’s hands in his own.

Derek slowly blinked his eyes open, looking down at his hands.

His wrists were chaffed and red but they were free.

He lifted his eyes and met Stiles’ gaze, his expression softening as he smiled slightly.

Stiles returned the smile before looking down at Derek’s wrists. There were patches of skin that had blistered and festered into sores.

“Scott,” Stiles called. “Have you got any aloe vera?”

There was a quiet rattle behind him and a thunk as Scott tossed the bottle at Stiles’ feet.

“Thank you,” Stiles replied, opening the bottle and carefully smearing the cool gel across Derek’s wrists.

He looked up at Derek and said, “We should keep these clean, we don’t want them to get infected.”

Derek nodded.

Stiles had just begun to wind the bandages around Derek’s wrists when the older boy abruptly said, “You should cuff me.”

Stiles looked up at him, shocked.

“It’s not safe with me yet,” Derek insisted. “I have moments when I’m here and my memory’s getting better but a lot of the time it’s like I’m sleep walking… You should cuff me.”

Stiles let out a defeated sigh and nodded. He reached for a nearby pack and searched for the military-grade cuffs but hesitated and pushed them away.

Derek frowned, his brow furrowed in confusion as he watched Stiles pick up another makeshift bandage and lay it over the existing bandages. He spun the bandage in a figure eight pattern, tying Derek’s hands in place.

Derek smiled weakly at the boy and thanked him.

Peter stepped over to their side and offered Derek a bottle of water, watching over his nephew with a worried gaze as Derek took the bottle in his own hands and lifted it to his chapped lips.

Among the settling quiet, Stiles heard the distinct sounds of repressed sobs. He turned around and looked across the room at Jones.

The man stood in the corner, turned away from the group to hide his tears.

Stiles felt his stomach knot.

The thought of losing Scott to the Games was terrifying, but he had never actually lost his brother. He couldn’t imagine the pain Jones was feeling right then.

He felt guilty; he had led all these people to their deaths. That burden was wearing him down; a weight he couldn’t stand anymore.

“I made it up,” Stiles rasped, the words falling from his lips.

Everyone turned to look at him.

“There is not special mission from Rafe, only my own plan,” Stiles confessed. “It’s my fault. Everyone that’s dead is dead because of me… because I lied.”

“We know,” Scott replied softly. “We all lied.”

Stiles stared at him for a moment, stunned. He looked between the others, shocked as they all returned his gaze and nodded.

“Do you really believe that Lorraine thought you had orders from Rafe?” Peter asked. “Like mother like daughter: she’s as stubborn as Lydia but she trusted Araya, and Araya would have wanted you to go on. So would every one of us.”

“I never meant for this to happen. I’ve failed all of you,” Stiles whimpered. He looked over at Jones, his own eyes filling with tears as he whispered. “I’m sorry… I’m so sorry, Jones.”

“Erica, Boyd, Braeden, Liam, Kira, Allison, Paige.” The voice startled all of them as Derek spoke up from the other side of the room. “Hayden, Geyer, Marin, Tracy, Brett, Lori, Satomi, Noshiko, Meredith, Gerard, Aiden, Coach, Laura… What do all those deaths mean?”

Stiles didn’t reply; he didn’t know how to.

“They mean that our lives were never ours,” Derek answered for him. “Because of Deucalion. None of us ever had a real life – one that we could proudly call our own – because we didn’t have any choice. Our lives belong to Deucalion and it’s destined to stay that way unless you kill him. If you kill him, Stiles, if you put an end to this, their deaths will mean something.”

There was a moment of silence before Derek continued, “Deaton, Mitchell, the twins, Lorraine, Matthias, Severo, Araya, and every person who stood up or fought back. They chose this... They chose you.”


	32. Chapter 32

Stiles couldn’t sleep; his mind was restless.

He tried to lay still, his eyes heavy with fatigue but never falling shut.

Among the quiet of the night he would occasionally hear Corey whimper and someone wake to check on him. A few hours before dawn, Stiles heard Scott wake and sit next to Derek, talking softly.

“Can’t sleep?” Scott asked.

“I could have killed him,” Derek muttered.

“Corey or Stiles?”

“Both,” Derek said, his voice strained with guilt.

“But you didn’t,” Scott reminded him.

“I cut Corey’s leg off,” Derek argued.

“You saved his life,” Scott pointed out. “Because of you he gets to go home and see his husband again. Because of you, Mason isn’t a widower.”

“I’m scared,” Derek admitted. “I’m scared I’m going to snap and hurt Stiles, or worse: kill him.”

“You won’t,” Scott assured him. “That’s what Chris, Peter and I are here for. We’re here to help you if you lose yourself. And Stiles is more than capable of defending himself, but the fact is he doesn’t want to fight back and make you think he’s a monster.”

“He’s not,” Derek yelped. “Scott, I’m terrified that I’m going to break beyond repair and hurt the man I love.”

“You won’t,” Scott said softly. “I promise.”

 

The team woke early the next morning to the sound of silenced weaponry and artillery; the thundering chaos was replaced by howling sirens.

A small television screen in the basement blinked on, the capitol emblem filling the screen before fading to the image of Deucalion’s face as he made an announcement, “To all Capitol residents in a half mile radius of the City Circle, I am issuing a mandatory evacuation. Come to the Presidential Palace where you will be given sanctuary. All refugees, come to my home. Here you will be given food, medicine, and shelter and safety for yourselves, your families and your children. And you will have my solemn promise that I will protect you until my dying breath.”

“I wish he’d hurry up with that last part,” Corey muttered, stirring from his weary state for only a moment before shuffling about, rolling over and going back to sleep.

Peter smirked and let out a hearty chuckle at the boy’s comment.

Deucalion continued, “Our enemy is not like us; they are vandals. They are envious and rebellious because they have not had what we have, they are not coming to liberate us: they are coming to destroy our way of life. They are coming to kill us.”

“We’re about five blocks away,” Derek muttered.

“They’ve most likely deactivate the pods for citizens’ safety,” Scott added.

Stiles tested his staff, making sure the release mechanism was still working after the damage sustained from the sewer water. He slid the compact staff into his belt and rose to his feet.

“If I can get close enough, I can take him out,” Stiles said bluntly.

“Our faces are on every billboard. The peacekeepers will get you before you reach the gates,” Derek pointed out.

“They’re welcoming civilians,” Stiles said pensively. “What if we look like them? We’d blend into the crowd and walk right through the front gates.”

As if on cue, Danny entered with a pile of large capes. He handed them to Stiles and explained, “The hood should be large enough to hide your face and the cape long enough and free flowing to conceal weapons.”

Stiles nodded and got changed, adjusting his armour as he dressed himself in the change of clothes Danny had given him. He hid the concentrated wolfsbane tablet in one of the pockets and strapped the knife around his slender hips. He slid the compact staff into his belt and took the gun that Chris offered him – ‘extra precaution,’ the man called it.

Stiles turned, noticing that Scott had changed too.

“Dude,” Stiles said, gesturing to Scott’s get-up.

“You didn’t think I’d let you go alone, did you?” Scott asked.

“I can’t ask this of you,” Stiles said, his voice low and firm as he looked at Scott with pleading eyes.

“You’re not asking,” Scott replied, his determination unwavering as he met Stiles’ gaze. “I’m going.”

“I want to come too,” Derek rasped. “If it all goes to shit then I can at least be a diversion.”

“No,” Stiles said firmly, shaking his head rapidly. “I can’t lose you again. I _won’t_ lose you again.”

“Fine, but if you’re leaving, I need a wolfsbane pill,” Derek insisted.

Stiles didn’t reply. He stared at Derek, his eyes full of fear as he shook his head.

“I’m not going back,” Derek whimpered pleadingly, his glimmering eyes filling with tears of distress and anguish.

Stiles shook his head again. “No.”

Scott sighed and stepped over to Derek’s side. He dug into the pocket of his coat and pulled out the small case with the concentrated pill in it. He set it down in the palm of Derek’s hand and firmly said, “You’d better not take it.”

“Not unless I have to,” Derek assured him.

The Mute rose from his seat beside Corey, picking up one of the plush fur capes, holding it to his chest to size it for a moment before shrugging it onto his broad shoulders.

Stiles threw his hands into the air. “Not you too. Who’s going to stay and look after Corey?”

“What am I, chop liver?” Peter scoffed.

“I’m doing that,” Chris interjected, ignoring Peter. “Melissa has taught me one or two things and I know enough to keep him stable.”

“I’ll stay,” Danny said.

All eyes turned to him.

“I’ll stay to look after Corey and Derek,” Danny repeated. “I know the Capitol. I’m a civilian; they won’t hurt me. And if it all goes to hell, then I can help.”

“Danny, you have a chance to get out of here,” Stiles said softly. “You can turn your back on the war and get to safety.”

“What kind of a man would I be if I turned my back on the people who needed me?” Danny asked. He met Stiles’ stunned gaze, shocked for a moment before adding, “You’ve changed a lot more lives than you think, Stiles.”

Chris looked across the room. “Jones, are you going too?”

Jones shook his head.

“Okay,” Stiles whispered.

Once everyone was suited up, they said goodbye to one another.

Stiles untied Derek’s makeshift cuffs and pressed a tender kiss to the older boy’s cheek.

“Stay alive,” Stiles begged of him, his voice raspy and breaking under the strain.

Derek pulled Stiles into his arms, holding him close in the warmth of his embrace.

Stiles relaxed, resting his head against Derek’s chest and listening to his steady heartbeat as he returned the hug.

How could he have ever forgotten how it felt to be held like that?

“I will if you do,” Derek promised. He slowly drew back, levelling his eyes with Stiles’. He pressed a kiss to Stiles’ temple and whispered, “If I see you again, this will be a different world.”

Stiles nodded.

He watched Derek’s eyes sparkle, the colour shifting between shades of green and blue as emotion swirled in their depths.

There were three words than he needed to say but he couldn’t say them. His lips quivered around the unspoken words.

Derek reached forward, brushing his fingers against Stiles’ cheek as he whispered, “I know. Me too.”

Stiles smiled sweetly and stepped back. He reluctantly stepped back and looked at the others.

“Alright,” he said. “Let’s go.”

They pulled the hoods over their heads and stepped out the front door, disappearing into the bustling streets.

 

“By order of President Deucalion, all residents are to proceed to the Presidential Palace,” a voice called over the speakers that lined the city streets. “Please continue to move forward in a calm and orderly fashion. There will be extra food and medicine for everyone.”

It played over and over again.

Stiles, Scott and the Mute stayed together as they blended into the crowd, keeping their eyes on the ground and their heads bowed so that the heavy hoods of their coats would conceal their faces. They walked on through the drifting stream of people.

Stiles glanced up.

Ahead of them, among the rippling tides of colourful silks and pelts, was a young woman carrying her daughter. The little girl looked as if she had been woken from bed, still dressed in her pale blue silk pyjamas and resting her head on her mother’s shoulder sleepily. The child met his gaze, her glittering azure eyes growing wide as a glimmer of recognition passed over her face.

Stiles looked away, lowering his gaze and bowing his head as they continued to move through the streets.

The next time he looked up he noticed that the few people further down the line who wore hooded outfits or decorative ornaments and scarves that concealed their faces were being searched individually.

Stiles glanced over his shoulder, noticing that peacekeepers were weaving their way through the crowd.

“We can’t turn back,” Stiles whispered, keeping his voice low enough that only his two friends could hear.

“Just stay calm and keep moving,” Scott replied.

Stiles felt sick, his stomach churning with anxiety and his heart pounding against his ribs as bile rose into his throat.

Scott lowered his hand beneath his robe, setting his hand on the butt of his crossbow and readying himself to fight.

Stiles drew his knife from the sheath on his hip. He tightened his grip on the hilt until his knuckles were aching and his muscles burning with the tension.

A peacekeeper walked up behind them.

Stiles felt the man’s hand fall on his shoulder.

There was a deafening boom and a blinding light as the crowd was parted. People toppled over each other, knocked to the ground by the shockwave and falling over their own feet as they scrambled to stand upright and sprint towards the Presidential Palace.

The rebels attacked in a line, mowing down innocent civilians in a barrage of gunfire.

Stiles’ stood still, stunned. One sound broke through all others: the shrill cry of a child. He spun around and saw the little girl in the blue pyjamas crouched beside the blood-soaked body of her mother as the woman slowly bled to death, her body shuddering and convulsing.

“I did this,” Stiles muttered under his breath, watching at the glistening tears streaked the girl’s pale cheeks and fell to the ground.

Scott grabbed Stiles’ arm and shouted over the thundering noise, “Come on. We have to keep going.”

They leapt to their feet and ran towards the nearest barricade. They vaulted over the concrete slabs and crouched behind them, shielding themselves from the raining gunfire.

Stiles sheathed his knife and drew the gun Chris had given him.

Scott grabbed his arm and they ran forward, stopping to hide behind pillars and barricades as they wove their way towards the large ornate cast iron gates of the Presidential Palace.

They dove behind an armoured Jeep.

An artillery shell struck nearby, flipping the Jeep over them.

Scott and Stiles spilt, diving to either side as the car erupted into a fireball and hit the ground with a thundering explosion.

A roaring orange glow consumed the vehicle. Tendril-like flames flickered as they devoured the fuel and melted the metal, leaving the armour plating buckled and warped.

Stiles sat still for a moment, stunned.

The heat of the blaze radiated against his skin, the glow making the beads of sweat glisten on his skin. His heart sank into his stomach as he watched on helplessly as the fire destroyed the everything and the streets filled with screams of chaos.

“It’s not real,” he muttered to himself, remembering the swirling tides of screaming jabberjays that encircled him. He remembered the stinging pain of tearing flesh as the birds lashed out at him with razor-sharp claws and beaks. He remembered Derek’s face as he called to him from the other side of the barrier. “It’s not real.”

He felt cold as he sat still and watched the dancing flames devour everything in its path.

Through the flickering tendrils of fire, he saw peacekeepers run forward and seize Scott, grabbing his arms, kicking aside his weapon and hauling the boy to his feet. They dragged him back towards a convoy, fighting against the boy’s thrashing body as he tried to break free of their hold.

Stiles leapt to his feet and raised his gun, aiming for the peacekeepers but he couldn’t get a clear shot. He shifted the barrel and aimed it at Scott, looking down the line of sight at the boy’s chest.

He had a clear shot.

Scott met his gaze and shouted, “Shoot me!”

Stiles’ gut lurched at his friend’s cries.

His hand trembled. He tightened his grip and refocused his aim.

“Stiles, shoot me!” Scott shouted.

Stiles’ hand faltered.

He lowered the gun.

He couldn’t do it.

“Shoot me!”

Another artillery shell dropped.

Stiles dove beneath the cover of a large cement block, ducking his head and holding his breath as he fought off the panic attack that crept up on him.

He lifted his gaze, looking down the street. The rebels were advancing without any hesitation.

The Mute had been lost among the flurry of people and while Stiles searched the sea of coats and cloth, he couldn’t find the man.

Stiles turned to look at the crowd that gathered before gates to the Presidential Palace, people screaming and begging for them to open.

He slowly rose to his feet, his legs aching as he forced them to move. He bounded into the middle of the street and climbed up onto a Jeep to get a better look at what was happening further down the street.

“Please stay calm, the gates will open momentarily,” the announcement said. “Please bring your children forward. Children will be accepted immediately… Please stay calm, the gates will open momentarily…”

It repeated, again and again.

Heartbreaking cries were torn from the chests of children as they were thrashed about, screamed and begged to return to the comfort of their parent’s arms. The adults continued passed them forward. Among the cries, Stiles heard the broken sobs of parents as they promised to find their children once the gates opened.

There was a low rumble as an aircraft flew overhead, the sleek black wings painted with the Capitol emblem.

From beyond the unending screams, Stiles could hear the light twinkle of a care packages. He turned his eyes towards the sky and watched as several small lights blinked as the parcels drifted down towards the crowd on silver parachutes.

Everyone fell silent, the only sound being that of the twinkling packages as they drew closer and closer.

Everyone reached up for them, their hands raised to the sky.

Stiles’ gut twisted with crippling nausea; an intuitive sense that something was wrong. He opened his mouth to shout when he saw one man reach up, his fingertips brushing the side of the care package.

It detonated.

There was a chain of explosions, the air igniting and the packages erupting like fireworks.

Stiles was hurled back.

He struck something solid, letting out a weak grunt before collapsing to the ground. His body ached, unmoving as the ground beneath him fell away and he sank into darkness.


	33. Chapter 33

Stiles slowly blinked his eyes open, watching through the blur of colours as the Mute carried Scott’s unconscious body over to Stiles’ side. The man was unharmed, not a scratch on him as he set the older boy down behind a concrete barricade.

“Mute,” Stiles mumbled drearily.

‘Take care of him,’ the Mute instructed, pointing to Scott.

The artillery shell had hit near the convoy that Scott had been dragged to, but it seemed like the armoured car had taken most of the blast. Scott had not come out unscathed though; his face was smeared with blood that trickled out of the large gash on his forehead. Aside from that, he had a few cuts on his arms and legs and the shallow scratches across his bare chest having had his armour and clothes torn off by the damage. Stiles watched him for a moment, staring intently at his chest and watching as it slowly rose and fell. He was still breathing and he’s be fine with a few bandages and some painkillers.

He turned to watch the Mute run back towards the crowd by the gates of the Presidential Palace.

“Mute,” Stiles called, his voice a little louder this time.

He rose to his feet shakily, making his way past the barricade as he watched the man run to help the others; those closer to the gate.

Stiles winced as his ears filled with a painful shrieking ringing sound. He blinked away the haze in his eyes and saw a man carrying his daughter’s limp body through the masses of corpses and screaming for a medic.

Stiles felt sick, his gut churning with guilt as his blood ran cold in his veins. He felt a wave of bile rise into his throat, burning him from the inside out as he stumbled forwards.

The Mute ran to help carry the stragglers out of the bloody mess.

Stiles stumbled closer.

“Mute,” Stiles called again, his ears ringing.

The man froze and looked down at something beneath his foot. His eyes flew open wide and he spun around to look at Stiles. He held his hand out, his lips parting as a cry fell from his lips, “No!”

The mines detonated.

Stiles was thrown back, slamming into the ground with a solid thud.

He laid still, staring up at the smoke-filled sky as embers ignited his coat and set him ablaze. He felt the skin prickle his skin, a searing pain crawling over his body.

_“And what if help isn’t coming?” Stiles asked. “What if help is too late?”_

_He remembered the way Marin looked at him, her dark eyes unsteady as she promised, “Help will always come. And if they’re too late, then you died fighting.”_

He drew in a deep breath, balling his hand into a fist and slamming it down on the broken pavement. His face twisted into an unwavering glare as he hurled himself upright. He felt cold—as if he was no longer inhabiting his own body—as he rose to his feet and stormed forward.

He walked through the wall of roaring fire unhindered and unflinching. He slammed the heel of his boot into the gates, hurling them open as he stormed the Palace grounds. The flames fanced about his coat like they did on the outfits he wore to the Opening Ceremonies; ‘the boy on fire’ Deucalion had called him. He shrugged the burning coat off of his shoulders, letting it fall limply on the pebbled path and revealing the elegant black armour that Deaton had created.

He marched on up to the mansion.

He kicked in the door and stormed straight through to Deucalion’s office, his face void of any expression as rage set his blood on fire.

“I didn’t send those bombs,” Deucalion called as a greeting.

“You’re lying,” Stiles growled, stepping into the centre of the room.

The armed guards stepped forward, surrounding him as they raised their weapons and aimed the barrels of their guns at Stiles.

“Why would I lie to you?” Deucalion asked. “Those were innocent children.”

“So were Erica, Boyd, Braeden, Liam, Kira, Allison, Paige, Hayden, Geyer, Marin, Tracy, Brett, Lori, Satomi, Noshiko, Meredith, Aiden, and The Mute… but you showed them no mercy.”

Deucalion bowed his head as if he felt remorse.

“You killed my friends,” Stiles muttered, his voice hoarse as tears coursed his cheeks. “You even killed my daughter.”

Deucalion was silent as he turned his cloudy grey eyes and focused his gaze on Stiles.

Stiles tightened his grip on his compact staff, flicking it out until the glittering carbonite rod locked into place.

The guards holstered their guns and drew out nightsticks.

Stiles kept his glare honed on Deucalion as he said, “And now, I’m going to kill you.”

The guards leapt forward, charging at Stiles.

Stiles adjusted his grip on the pole and spun it around, disarming the near figures before sweeping it under their ankles and knocking them to the ground. One by one they bounced back, leaping to their feet and lunging at Stiles. He slammed the end of the staff into their gut or smacked it over their heads, knocking them back. He planted his boot in one man’s gut, knocking him off balance just long enough to spin around with another kick and drop him to the floor.

He spun the staff around again, whacked it into the wrist of another man and knocking the nightstick of his grip. Stiles spun into his arms and slammed his elbow into the man’s helmet, the force rendering him unconscious.

He spun around in time to disarm an approaching figure, a man who had discarded his helmet with a shattered visor.

Th guard stumbled slightly and Stiles braced himself and swung again.

The guard blocked it, planting his boot against Stiles’ gut and making him stumble. He sprinted forward and pinned the boy to the wall.

Stiles growled in pain, his teen gritted as he glared at the man.

He pushed himself as far back against the wall as he could and slammed the heels of his boots into the man’s shins.

The man keeled over in pain, giving Stiles the opportunity he needed. He grabbed the man and kneed him in the gut, pulled him upright and slammed his fist into the man’s cheek.

It stunned the guard for a moment, stumbling back and eyes wide with shock as he stared at the boy.

He spat out a gross mix of blood and saliva and charged at Stiles again.

The boy adjusted his grip on his stall and swung it.

The pole collided with the man’s cheek with the gut wrenching sound of breaking bone as blood was spilt across the glossy marble tiles and the final guard was rendered unconscious.

The man’s body crumbled weakly before hitting the ground with a solid thud.

Stiles stood still for a second, his unyielding glare focused on Deucalion.

“You told me not to underestimate you,” Deucalion started slowly, looking at the boy with a somewhat amused smirk. “But I never thought a street rat from District Twelve would last this long.”

“I told you not to hurt my friends or my family; I warned you that if you did you would see what a real rebellion looked like,” Stiles reminded him. “And yet, like the petty little man you are, you couldn’t help yourself. You brought this on yourself.”

“You’re still a child playing the hero,” Deucalion scolded.

“Only because you’ve made me one,” Stiles countered.

Deucalion rose from his desk, stepping around the large oak table to stand before Stiles. He raised his arm and trained the barrel of his gun on the boy’s forehead.

“I’m going to count down from three and then I’m going to kill you,” Deucalion announced.

Stiles smirked and took a step forward, his face pressed up to the cold barrel as he growled, “You think you can scare me? You tore me away from my family and threw me in an arena with blood-thirsty tributes, twice, and you think that this scares me?”

“No,” Deucalion replied. “I think I can kill you. I just thought the countdown would make it more exciting.”

“That’s really cliché,” Stiles teased.

Deucalion didn’t respond. He glared at the boy and began, “Three…”

Stiles didn’t react, he kept his expression firm, his heartbeat steady and his composure solid.

Deucalion cocked the gun and counted, “Two…”

Stiles closed his eyes, a small tear escaping his heavy eyelashes and glistening as it rolled down his cheek.

In that moment, he was left alone with his thoughts; haunted by the memories of the promises he had made, the people he had failed and all the people he had loved and left behind.

This was where he met his end.

He didn’t get a chance to say goodbye to Scott or his dad, to Melissa or Isaac, to Peter or Chris, or to Derek.

_Derek…_

He was the reason Stiles was driven to this point; he wanted get revenge on what the Capitol did to the man he loved. But he had failed.

He let out a heavy breath and thought, _This is how it ends._

“One…”

The gun fired, the boom of the gunshot echoing in Stiles’ mind as his ears screamed. He felt nothing, only the strange warmth of droplets falling upon his face like the blankets of summer rain that breaks the clouds and falls to the earth. But he didn’t smell the sweet petrichor; he smelt the sickening metallic taste that was all too familiar, the smell of blood.

He held his breath and blinked opened his eyes, shocked when he noticed the hole in Deucalion’s forehead as the man’s body fell to the ground.

Stiles’ stomach lurched, vomit rising in his throat as he realised that it was in fact blood – Deucalion’s blood – sprayed across his face.

He stumbled backwards, clamping a hand over his mouth to stop himself from puking. He finally steadied himself enough to draw breath, turning around to see a figure standing in the doorway, dressed in peacekeeper armour that was painted black.

The newcomer lifted their hand and pulled the helmet off, revealing the familiar face; dark eyes and messy brown hair, a man whose good looks his son had inherited and whose face Stiles never in his wildest dreams would have through he’d be glad to see.

“Rafe?” Stiles gasped, blinking as if it were an illusion.

“Are you okay?” Rafael asked, stepping over to Stiles’ side.

Stiles turned and glanced down at Deucalion’s dead body. He lay still, lifeless and defeated as his blood pooled on the glossy marble tiles.

He was gone.

It was over.

Stiles nodded slowly.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “I’m okay.”


	34. Chapter 34

The war was over: the fighting ceased and the injured cared to. Silence fell over Beacon Hills as the artillery shelling stopped and weapons were laid down. The fires that had raged through the Capitol had died out, leaving piles of glowing embers and blankets of pale grey ash that covered the street and clung to people’s clothes, faces and hair like flakes of snow.

By the time Stiles stumbled out of the Presidential Palace, his face smeared with blood, Scott was back on his feet and running to his friend’s side.

“Stiles,” he called, pulling the boy into his arms and holding him close. “Are you alright?”

Stiles didn’t have the words to reply. He pulled Scott close and returned the hug, feeling tears of relief well in his eyes.

Stiles’ lack of response seemed to make Scott panic. The older boy pulled back from the hug and set Stiles down on his feet and looking at him with dark eyes full of worry as he repeated, “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Stiles lied by instinct.

“What happened?” Scott asked.

“Bombs,” Stiles replied, not able to say much more. He thought for a moment, his mind spinning with thoughts and his gut twisting as he realised what had happened. “A Capitol plane dropped care packages, but they were bombs… Mute got us to safety and went back to help others. He…”

Stiles’ eyes widened as he realised something.

“It was a hummingbird trap,” he gasped. “Deucalion didn’t send he bombs; we did… Our people sent the bombs…”

“What are you talking about?” Scott muttered.

“Rafe,” Stiles howled, pulling away from Scott and storming over the man’s side.

Scott chased after him, grabbing his writs and holding him back from attacking the man.

Rafael stopped and turned, his brow raised questioningly.

“You sent the jets, didn’t you?” Stiles said lowly. “You sent the bombs.”

Rafe drew in a deep breath and turned. He didn’t say anything, but that was a good enough answer to Stiles.

“You son of a bitch!” Stiles shouted after him. “You killed them!”

“Stiles,” Scott said quietly, wrestling with his friend as he fought to hold the boy back.

“You killed those children!” Stiles howled.

“They were the enemy,” Rafe retorted, turning on the boy with burning rage in his eyes.

“And the Mute?” Stiles replied. “What about him?”

“An unfortunate loss,” Rafe said bluntly before turning and walking away.

“Stiles, what are you talking about? What happened to the Mute?” Scott asked.

Stiles stilled, watching Rafe leave. “They were innocent bystanders. He carried us to safety and went back to save them.”

“Hummingbird trap,” Scott said thoughtfully. It took him a moment before he realised what Stiles was trying to say. He let out a heartbreaking sigh and he whispered, “The second explosion.”

Stiles nodded weakly, holding back the wave of tears the stung his eyes.

“And Deucalion?” Scott asked.

“Dead,” Stiles replied bluntly.

“So that’s it?” Scott muttered. “It’s all over?”

Stiles nodded again.

“That’s it,” he replied. “It’s all over.”


	35. Chapter 35

Rafael called a meeting for the surviving victors, and like obedient sheep they gathered together in one of the large rooms of the Presidential Palace. They each took a seat around a large round table that stood in the centre of the room, occasionally glancing back and forth between one another. Rafe hadn’t divulged anything about why they were gathered, leaving them all confused.

Stiles glanced across the table to where Mason and Corey sat, holding each other’s hands and talking quietly to one another.

Corey had recovered well; his leg had been properly stitched up and a prosthetic leg – specifically designed to keep him balanced and not put too much pressure or heat on the healing wound – had been fitted to help him walk. There was colour back in his cheeks and a smile on his face that brightened whenever Mason was around.

Stiles knew he was going to be okay.

Rafael sat down in the large chair before the wall of windows, taking a moment to compose his thoughts before speaking, “I’ve gathered you all here today to discuss some plans we have put together for the future of the newly-liberated Beacon Hills. I’d like to put forward the idea of a new Hunger Games.”

The room fell silence, a heavy tension suffocating them as all of the victors looked at him with stunned expressions.

“This time, the tributes will be reaped from the children of the Capitol,” Rafael announced. “I understand if many of you adverse to this idea, but I think it’s about time that the Capitol felt the pain and misery that they put us through for the past seventy-five years. I’m putting it to a vote; I need three votes for ‘yes’ to pass it. I vote yes.”

He glanced to his side at Corey.

The boy’s face was twisted in horror as he violently shook his head and said, “No.”

Next was Mason, his grip tightening on Corey’s hand as he backed him up and answered, “No.”

Rafe’s gaze wandered to the next victor.

Derek focused his predatory glare on Rafe, silent. For a moment, they wondered if he was about to leap across the table and strangle the man. When he finally spoke, it was through gritted teeth as he growled, “No.”

Rafe turned to look at Stiles.

“Yes,” the boy answered.

Everyone spun to look at him, eyes wide with shock.

“Stiles,” Peter gasped, stunned.

Stiles interrupted him, “Everyone here has lost someone because of the Games, because of the Capitol: Lucas and Marie-Jeanne, Marin and the Mute, Paige and Allison, they’re all gone because of the Capitol. They need to know the pain they’ve put us through, decades of agony and loss.”

Stiles’ expression was firm and unwavering despite the looks of shock and horror that were directed at him.

“For the thousands who have died, for those we’ve lost, I vote yes.”

Rafael shook himself from his stunned state; he had never expected Stiles of all people to agree with him. He turned to look at Peter. “Two votes for yes, one more and the notion is passed.”

Peter ignored the man. His gaze was locked onto Stiles as he squinted slightly, trying to work out Stiles’ thoughts, trying to understand the boy’s decision and knowing that it wasn’t as simple as he had made it out to be; he had a plan.

Stiles met his gaze, glaring at the man.

Peter let out a defeated sigh and nodded.

“I’m with Stiles,” he replied, his voice strained as he answered, “I vote yes.”

The others looked like they were about to erupt into an uproar when Rafe smirked and said, “So be it.”


	36. Chapter 36

The gathering crowd filtered into the main street of the Capitol, marching on down the City Circle where the chariots had once paraded and gushing into the streets like raging water from a broken dam. Their voices echoed about the place as they followed the line of victors towards the stage.

Their applause and shouts grew louder, escalating into a barbaric roar of chants, as Rafael stepped up to the microphone.

Stiles spotted Scott’s face among the sea of people, taking a moment to compose himself before weaving his way through the crowd to stand by his friend’s side.

Scott glanced at him, offering him a kind smile, but Stiles couldn’t return it.

Stiles felt his heart sink into his stomach. His vision was clouded with all the memories of Scott’s smile and their friendship, all of them quickly fading as his mind swarmed with a hornet’s nest of thoughts and doubts, imaging how Scott was going to react: none of them reassuring.

“Scott,” Stiles whispered, finally finding his voice.

His friend looked at him again but Stiles averted his gaze, keeping his eyes focused on Rafe as the man begun his speech.

“I’m about to do something and you’ll probably never forgive me for it,” Stiles admitted, keeping his voice low. “But please, don’t try and stop me. I understand if you hate me for the rest of your life or if you never want to see me again after today, but this is something I need to do. Just know that I _have_ to do this. For you. For everyone… For Allison.”

Scott looked at him, his brow furrowed with confusion.

“Thank you,” Stiles whispered. “For being my brother… I’m sorry.”

Without another word, Stiles shuffled back through the crowd and stood by Peter and the other victors.

“What are you thinking, kid?” Peter asked, keeping his voice low.

“My dad once said that to break an oppressive political structure, you have to show the blind sighted people what kind of manipulative tyrant they’ve been following by giving them one just as bad or even worse.” Stiles explained.

Peter glanced down at the boy, noticing Stiles’ deadpan expression as he glared at the man onstage.

“That’s why you voted yes,” Peter mused. He nodded and let out a heavy sigh. “I admire you, kid. I respect you.”

“I want you to promise me something,” the boy pleaded.

“Anything.”

“Take care of Derek,” Stiles said.

Peter glanced down at the boy again, noticing the pain that welled in his glittering amber eyes.

“You’re all he has left,” Stiles whispered.

They fell silent after that, listening to Rafe’s speech about unity and moving forward to create a better Beacon Hills. The crowd roared with applause, cheering him on.

Then he made the announcement, “Starting next week, we shall host a new Hunger Games, the tributes for which will be reaped from the children of the Capitol.”

The crowd fell silent.

No-one smiled.

No-one cheered.

There was only a stunned, horrified silence as they looked up at him, betrayed.

Stiles made his move.

He unhitched the compact staff from his belt, swiftly flicking it into shape; the end sharpened to a point. He stepped forward before anyone could stop him, adjusted his grip on the spear and hurled it forward.

The spike soared through the air and tore through flesh and bone, impaling Rafe.

The man’s eyes flew open wide, staring down at Stiles in shock and disbelief.

The boy’s cold composure didn’t change as he met Rafe’s gaze with a lethal glare.

Thick streams of scarlet gushed from the man’s chest, spilling over his hands and trickling down the length of the glistening onyx staff. The droplets began to pool on the ground as Rafe stumbled forward and toppled off the stand.

The guards finally caught up with Stiles, lunging at him and knocking the boy off balance. They pinned him to the ground but not before Stiles heard the satisfying thud of the man’s corpse hitting the lower podium.

It was like a cannon fire: the last death of the seventy-sixth Hunger Games.

Stiles gave in, he didn’t fight the guards as they held him face-down on the rough concrete and fastened cuffs around his wrists.

He ignored the burn of tearing flesh as the rough concrete dug into his cheek and the surprised gasps of the crowd.

Everything was silent.

It was all over.

And then, there was an uproar; people shouting for the guards to release him, but among the cries of outrage – none of despair for the dead man – he could hear a familiar voice, a scream that rose above the others.

Scott.

“Let him go. Let him go! Stiles!”

 

Stiles sat alone in the quiet jail cell, curled up in a small alcove in the brickwork and sitting with his back to the bars. Every couple of hours, a guard would bring him food and water but he never felt like eating it. He had been that way for a couple of days now, listening to the voices of the people came to visit him, but never looking at them and never talking to them.

Scott was the person who came the most.

He would sit outside Stiles’ cell and beg his friend to talk to him, but Stiles couldn’t. He said he understood why Stiles did what he did – to show that Rafe was a manipulative monster and tyrannical dictator with an agenda as bad as Deucalion’s and to truly free everyone in Beacon Hills of that oppression. He said he didn’t blame him for taking such drastic measures.

“A while ago, your dad said something to me and I’ve been thinking about it a lot more lately,” Scott said quietly. “He told me there’s a difference between being a father and being a dad. A father is biology – that’s what Rafe was to me – but a dad is someone who’s there for you, who loves you. Rafe was never my dad; he was just a man who’s genetically linked to me. And now that I know what he was planning, I’m glad he’s gone; I don’t want another Hunger Games, I just want my family: my mum, your dad, Chris, Isaac, Peter, Derek and you.”

Stiles bowed his head, hunching into the shadows of the crevice he cowered in. He hid his tears as they trailed down his pale cheeks and fell into the dark shadows.

“You’re still my brother, Stiles,” Scott said. “I wouldn’t give that up for the world.”

Stiles didn’t reply.

“You will always be my brother, Stiles,” Scott repeated, resting his head against the bars of the cell. “That’s never going to change, man.”

A heavy blanket of silence settled over them, a thick tension that was so unfamiliar to them. Since when couldn’t they talk to each other? Since when can’t they just sit in peaceful quiet and enjoy each other’s presence? Why did they have to change?

“Your dad’s going to be the next President,” Scott said with a smile. “The whole of Beacon Hills voted him in and he’s finally getting the recognition he deserves.”

Stiles wanted to smile; he had always assumed that when he eventually heard that news, he would smile, but there was a heavy weight in his chest that refused to let him live in that moment of joy.

“Mum’s setting up hospitals across the Districts and establishing laws that allow people to move between Districts to choose the jobs they want, live where they want, and everyone gets a fair share of the food they produce. It’s slow, but we’re finally making Beacon Hills a better place.”

The silence returned.

Stiles heard Scott thump his head against the bars in frustration.

“Stiles,” he whispered pleadingly. “Talk to me.”

He couldn’t.

Scott sighed heavily and, after a moment, he rose to his feet and left.

Stiles bowed his head and alone in the darkness he let his tears fall.

It was hours before his next visitor came.

Their footsteps stopped before cell door, followed by the sound of a heavy metal bolt sliding back.

Peter stepped into his cell, looking down at Stiles with icy blue eyes that couldn’t hide his pain.

“Come on, kid,” Peter whispered.

“What happens next?” Stiles asked. “My execution?”

“No,” Peter replied. “No-one wants to repeat the horrors we’ve faced in the past seventy-five years and no-one wants to kill the man who freed everyone from that oppression.”

“So, what happens to me now?”

“It’ll be months before the political structure is stable enough to hold you on a fair trial,” Peter explained. “Until that time, you are to be exiled to District Twelve.”

“So I’m going back to Twelve?” Stiles repeated thoughtfully.

“We,” Peter corrected. “We are going back to Twelve.”

“You don’t have to come with me,” Stiles objected.

“I want to,” Peter replied.

“You can’t leave Derek alone,” Stiles shouted.

“He not alone; he has Scott and Melissa,” Peter said calmly. “John and Chris will watch over him and Isaac will remind him of who he used to be. They can do more for him than I ever could. He’ll be fine. He has people he loves here, people he trusts. Me? I’d just open up old wounds.”

Stiles silenced himself.

“Come on,” Peter encouraged. “There’s a train waiting for us at the station.”

“Do I get to say goodbye?” Stiles asked, rising to his feet and following Peter out into the hallways.

“I’m sorry, no,” Peter whispered. “Part of the bargain for letting you leave is that it couldn’t be seen as them letting you off because of a conflict of interest. You do, however, get to see one person.”

“Who?” Stiles asked as they stepped into the frost air and snow-covered streets.

“Lydia,” Peter announced, stepping aside so that Stiles could see the young woman waiting from them at the foot of the stairs that led to the train station.

Stiles sprinted down the stairs and into the girl’s arms. He held her close, lacing his fingers through the streams of her copper-coloured hair as he cradled her into the warmth of his embrace. He felt her shoulders tremble with stifled sobs as she buried her face into his shirt. Tears seeped into the soft cotton of his shirt, dampening his shoulder.

“It’s okay,” he whispered. “It’ll be okay.”

“I’m going to miss you, Stiles,” Lydia said softly between quiet sobs.

“I’m going to miss you too,” Stiles replied. He leant back and looked her in the eye. “Take care of everyone for me, okay?”

Lydia bit her lip and nodded, her strawberry blonde curls bouncing forward and hiding her tear-stained face behind the curtain of locks.

Stiles very carefully brushed them back and pressed a tender kiss to her forehead.

“And take care of yourself too,” he added.

She nodded and whispered, “You too, Stiles.” She glanced over her shoulder at Peter and added, “And don’t let him get on your nerves too much.”

Stiles chuckled, giving her one last hug before stepping aside and letting Peter say his farewells.

The man gave her a hug and a soft kiss on the cheek, whispering quietly too her before climbing aboard the train with Stiles.

The doors shut and the train took off, gliding across the rails effortlessly. The trip was long and quiet; the two of them sitting in separate carriages: Peter reading a book in the main cart while Stiles stared out the windows of the rear carriage, watching the Districts fly by.

He watched as people stopped their chores to look at the passing train.

One by one, across the seas of people, they brought their fingers to their lips and raised their hands high into the air in a gesture that was all too familiar to Stiles: the funeral salute of the District Twelve.

It meant thank you. It meant admiration. It meant goodbye to someone you love.


	37. Chapter 37

When they arrived in District Twelve, Stiles was silent. He didn’t bother going back to the Victor’s Village to sleep or eat. Instead, he went to work; picking up a shovel and digging a large rave on the outskirts of the District. He began to carry the dead to the graves, laying them as respectfully as he could on the cool, damp earth. They were too numerous and indistinguishable to give them grave stones or individual graves, but Stiles had a different plan in mind.

He ignored the fatigue and hunger, his body soaked in sweat and mud as he moved the bodies and, days later, filled in the grave.

He began to dig through the debris and collect large rocks and chunks of concrete, carrying them over to the large gravesite and building a fence around the cemetery.

Finally, he found a chunk of wood - what looked like it was once a table top – and drew out his knife, whittling words into the rich flesh with care and precision.

When the sign was finished, he set it up before the cemetery and stepped back to read it.

‘To the fallen: our unspoken heroes and lost loved ones’.

It wasn’t much, but it was all he could do to give dignity to the dead.

Finally finished, he returned to the Victor’s Village to bathe and dress in clean clothes.

Peter, like a good mentor, had made him lunch and left it on the table. Stiles washed his hands and picked at the sandwich, eating as much as he could stomach before collecting a bow and a quiver of arrows and heading out to hunt.

They were still supplied with rations that were delivered every Friday by the train but Stiles still liked the peaceful solitude of a hunt, even if all he brought back were berries and roots. He could easily lose himself in the serenity of simply walking through the forest on his own or sitting by the stream and reminiscing on all the times he had spent in that forest with Scott, Isaac and Allison.

He returned to the Victor’s Village hours later with a pouchful of berries and a rabbit he had caught in a snare. He stepped past the weed-covered iron gates and froze, his eyes focused on the figure kneeling before the fountain in the court yard, burying flowers in the soil-filled basins.

He didn’t have to see their face to know who it was.

Derek.

Stiles carefully crossed the open space and knelt by the older boy’s side.

“Peter told me what you were doing,” Derek muttered. “I got some flower seeds from Districts Nine and Eleven and planted them in the cemetery you built so in a few weeks that gravesite will be a field of flowers. And I found these by the river--” He gestured towards the pile of flowering plants: lavender, lilies, Sagittaria and more. “--I thought they might help.”

Stiles reached forward, brushing his finger across one the velvet-soft veiny petals of the blooming lily, a smile lifting the corners of his lips as he whispered, “They’re perfect.”

 

Things got better with time: the flowers bloomed, District Twelve was cleared out and rebuilt for the three inhabitants, and the train came every Friday, often bringing a visitor for them to talk to for the few hours it took to offload the cargo. More often than not, that visitor was Scott.

Stiles still felt guilty for what he had done but he was slowly opening up to his friend again and talking to him. And on the days he didn’t speak, Scott would. He would spend hours talking to Stiles about Isaac and their family, assuring his friend that everything was okay and updating him on all that he had missed. Scott tells him about how the Districts are unified and most of the walls that once divided the Districts have been torn down, allowing people to go where they like.

“Isaac is doing well, he’s going to school and he’s reading every day,” Scott told him. “Your dad is the best President Beacon Hills has ever seen, mum is now the head of medical personnel in the Capitol and supplies aide to all the Districts, and Lydia’s doing well but she misses you and told me to say hello.”

Stiles smirked.

“Corey and Mason are still together and happier than they’ve ever been,” Scott said. “They’re in the process of adopting a young boy who was orphaned in Eleven. You should see them, they’re a happy family: picture perfect.”

“They’d be great fathers,” Stiles mused, his cheeks dimpling slightly as he smiled. His smile fell as he stopped by the small grave by the foot of the large, blossoming gardenia tree.

“You were a great father too,” Scott whispered, guessing Stiles’ thoughts.

Stiles opened his mouth to say something when the train conducted interrupted them and called Scott back to the train.

They walked back to the station together and Stiles waved goodbye as the train took off.

 

Later, when the dark of night rolled in and a quiet settled over the District, Stiles crawled onto the bed and curled up on Derek’s chest.

Derek lowered his arms around Stiles shoulders.

Stiles nuzzled his face into Derek’s shirt, feeling his warmth brush against his skin. He could hear the steady thump of Derek’s heartbeat. He could smell the soft musk of his natural scent and the sweetness of strawberries and coconut oil – thanks to the new shampoos that were stocked up in the bathroom.

Derek’s heart skipped a beat.

Stiles craned his neck to look up at Derek and asked, “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Derek mumbled. He was quiet for a moment before confessing, “I still have nightmares.”

“So do I,” Stiles assured him. “But it’s okay.”

Derek was quiet for a moment, his face full of confusion as he rifled through his thoughts. He drew in a deep breath and asked, “The Games are over, real or not real?”

“Real,” Stiles answered. “It’s all over. We’re safe now.”

Derek nodded and whispered, “I have another question.”

Stiles sat back slightly and craned his neck to look the older boy in the eyes. “Okay. What is it?”

Derek swallowed hard. “You love me, real or not real?”

Stiles leant forward and laid a tender kiss against the Derek’s lips. He drew back just enough to draw breath and whisper his answer.

“Real.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to take a moment to thank all of you for your support, thank you for reading this series and leaving all those wonderful comments that have helped keep me motivated and going on days when I would have loved to just give up. Thank you for you helping me finish of this series, for leaving comments and kudos.  
> Thank you.

**Author's Note:**

> celestialvoid-fanfiction.tumblr.com


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